The Way of the Warrior
by OR7A
Summary: Two radically different characters walk the path destiny has dealt them. Will they eventually reach their joint destination?
1. Prologue

Just a disclaimer that I own nothing. Also just a few thank yous: firstly to JMS (Of course!!) for creating this great universe for which I love to play in. To Lawrence G. Ditilillo for the character of Walker Smith, to the late Greg McKinney for his excellent portrayal of Walker Smith and to John Vornholt for the character of Pa'Ko.

* * *

August 21st, 2258

Grid Epsilon

Walker Smith, a man of great stature and presence, had booked the last flight out of Babylon 5 that day. It was a long trip home; but one that would deliver him much satisfaction. It was a chance to reflect on what had gone before, and the challenges to come.  
He made his way down the cramped aisles of the Earth Alliance Passenger Liner White-Star and took the first window seat. Even though for 99 of the journey there was nothing to see he did enjoy the view once they were near home; besides the blips and bubbles of hyperspace's crimson mist had a strange soothing sensation that would kill the time.  
To his surprise and delight he was joined in the small row of three bench seats by a large elderly Caucasian man with a long wispy white beard. Walker recognized the man immediately, as Rabbi Koslov, the man he'd shared the rid _to_ Babylon 5 a week or so before.  
"Good to see you again my friend," Koslov said, setting his body's cumbersome frame into the seat.  
"You too," Smith returned the smile, "But I thought you would've headed back to Earth before now?"  
"Oi!" the Rabbi said, it was a very Jewish, and very endearing, exclamation. "I was booked aboard another vessel, my passage to the Russian Consortium all arranged, when Susan; that little baboska, I told you about? She decided that I should stay."  
Walker didn't want to press for more information about why the Rabbi had stayed longer, he was a man of faith and wouldn't speak of such personal matters.  
"At least I'll have someone to talk to on the ride home," Walked pitched.  
"Yes, our meeting aboard the White-Star before was great fortune. You know I prayed for you during your… what do they call it?"  
"Mutai?"  
"No! You're meetings with Mister Garibaldi! Susan says he can be quite, how did she put it? Wearing?"  
Walker gave a hard single laugh, he knew exactly what the Rabbi meant, and he deeply appreciate any help he received; spiritual or otherwise.  
The White-Star was getting ready for departure now. An attractive flight attendant had just announced they were about to enter hyperspace and that seatbelts should be fastened for just the jump.

Walker stared out of the window back at Babylon 5, his location in the White-Star's rotational section made the station disappear and reappear in his line of sight twice before the ship reached the Euphrates Jump Gate, each time Walker smiled; hoping his good friend, Michael Garibaldi, would be alright. He seemed happy enough, but as the news said; life out on the rim could be hard, and dangerous.  
A moment later, and the eternal blackness was replaced by the unforgiving haze of hyperspace, and Walker settled in for the long flight back to Sol. The White-Star's trip would take her to the docking station in orbit of Mars, before finally heading back to homeworld; it would be the ship's Martian port that Walker would get off at.  
"I heard about your success at the Mutai," Rabbi Koslov said a few moments into their journey, a hard religious ceremony the previous day had obviously not dinted the man's talkative nature.  
"Yeah, it made station news. I was the first Human to fight in the Mutai," Walker reiterated, he may be his own number one fan; but someone had to be, right?  
"I wouldn't call it a complete success, I drew afterall," Smith added honestly, as well as being his own number one; he was also his own harshest critic.  
"Ah! How does one measure success? Wins? Money earned? No, success is measured in respect; and from what I saw you earned much of that."  
"I think you're right Rabbi."  
"Of course I'm right! I'm a Rabbi after all! It's my job to know these things," the Rabbi it seemed, appeared to be his own number one fan. "You said on our trip to the station you had some doubts. Who or what vanquished those doubts?  
Walker went silent for a moment and seemed to really consider his answer; his time aboard Babylon 5 had been brief, but the lessons learnt in it's five mile long spinning shell would stay with him for a lifetime.  
"The man who coached me, Caliban; he was a great inspiration to me," Walker finally admitted. Caliban was a wise old Alien, what race Walker couldn't tell you, who had fought in the ranks of the Mutai many years previous; when the tournament would be held of worlds throughout the League of Non-aligned worlds. He had befriended Smith and Garibaldi when the Mutaido decided the ring was not the place for a Human; a tradition that dated back to the 2230s when the Mutai tournament was fought between aliens before and after the Dilgar War, the exclusion of Earthers had been popular with the anti-Earth feeling that followed the war from those aliens fearing the humans having to much say in Galactic affairs. This friendship served Smith well. Even Walker would admit himself that he had become a little complacent, he wasn't in as good a shape as he could have been; but Caliban set him right and saw him to a Mutai victory, and the honourable stand-off with the Mutai champion: Gyor.  
"He taught me the ways of the Mutai. The Way of the Warrior."  
"Warrior? A very noble title in ancient times," the Rabbi commented, he was a man of universal peace; the thought of men tearing each other apart in the name of sport a little disconcerting, even though he did support his new friend Walker Smith's ambition.  
"The Mutai served as a training ground for soldiers originally," Smith explained, he wasn't much for history; never had much appreciation for what had come before, and didn't care much for what came after, but the lessons that Caliban had taught he had listened to.  
"It's lineage can apparently be traced back a thousand years, to some great war apparently."  
The Rabbi nodded, noting the information in a little box marked "Walker Smith, Mutai" inside the great library in his mind.  
"What next then?" Koslov asked, wanting to fill the silence that had engulfed their trio of seats.  
"I'm getting off on Mars," Walker explained simply.  
"I always said people heal better in real air," the Rabbi said half jokingly.  
"I always say that too Rabbi, but I haven't got time to head back to Earth; I've been offered a boxing contract with a Mars promoter and he wants to meet me as soon as possible."  
Walker hadn't admitted to Garibaldi he would be fighting so soon after the duel with Gyor, which had left his scarred and bruised, as he didn't want to alarm his friend, but he would admit it to the Rabbi; a man of Faith couldn't judge.  
"As long as you feel ready to get back to work," the Rabbi said, an edge of concern in his voice, "Then I wish the best of luck in your career on Mars."  
With their conversation spent, at least for the time being, Walker turned his head to the side and looked out into the reddish hell beyond the triple reinforced glass. And with the waves and curls reflecting in his eyes Walker slowly drifted off to sleep, to dream a dream about a new start; a new life on Mars, a genuine contractor who wanted him for his merit, not just his reputation, and would pay: WELL.

* * *

October 3rd, 2258

Narn Homeworld

Pa'Ko, a male Narn child; no more than thirteen or fourteen years old, should have been playing with friends; frolicking in the endless fields that once dominated Narn's agricultural landscape. Because of the Centauri, he was told, he didn't. Because of the Centauri the strict social structure that now ruled Narn, had become even stricted. Because of the Centauri, a now free Narn, had a wide divide between it's richer clansmen and it's poorer clansmen. Pa'Ko was the son of the poorer clansmen, one of the poorest in fact. His parents were actually so socially rejected they didn't even belong the society's "outer circle", those who lived in the slums of Hekba City; but worked within the City walls. His parents had been deemed wasters, no-gooders, and as Pa'Ko was told had been executed long ago.  
The people telling the young boy all these things were the Thenta Ma'Kur, or Assassin's Guild once translated from Narnish into English. A secret organisation that operated primarily from the Narn homeworld. It's influence so far reaching in Narn society that they had people throughout the Regime; from Captains in the Gold Fleet, to ambassadors on distant worlds, and space stations. And where the Thenta Ma'Kur had influence, they were feared.  
Pa'Ko, at this time, knew none of this. His adolescent mind didn't want to be bogged down with guild hierarchical posturing, or deeds of honour; he was quite content to simply be. And, of course, help the guild with any dealings they might have in the Hekba City slums, for a good payout. Although, yet to actually kill someone, Pa'Ko had had his hands bloodied many times by helping the Ma'Kur to find their man, and had readily started training with a guild elder in the ways of Narn martial arts. The day of October 3rd on the Earther's Gregorian calendar saw weather like it always was on the barren surface of Narn; high winds, followed by low winds, followed by mediocre winds, and constant dust storms. It also saw Pa'Ko meeting a man by the name of Ra'Gon, an elder in the Thenta Ma'Kur; and one who was most respected by his peers, and feared by all others. Pa'Ko, however, being young of age, and fearless of spirit, neither respected, nor feared this huge looming bulk of a man. Infact he greeted him neutrally.  
"Are you Ra'Gon?" Pa'Ko asked, setting aside the piece of interestingly shaped rumble he had picked out of the collapsed building their meeting had been arranged.  
The large Narn nodded, his thickly styled and heavily arranged body armour made little else possible.  
"You are here to teach me?"  
"You are here to learn," was Ra'Gon's response.  
"As long as I get paid," Pa'Ko beemed, taking a few tentative steps down from the crumbling wall he'd perched himself atop. Ra'Gon's expression did not change as the young boy approached him, although he noted the boy's slight apprehension.  
"Do I scare you boy?" Ra'Gon asked, his voice was old; raspy, that coupled with his heavy seat eyes told of a life of torment and struggle.  
Pa'Ko shook his head; a lie. "No sir," he said stopping a few steps short of spitting distance.  
Ra'Gon bent down to the boy's level and smiled; catching Pa'Ko off guard and sent him a few steps back.  
"Rule one," Ra'Gon began; "Never lie to me again. Understand?"  
The elderly Narn raised his body back up to a full standing position and grinned, he saw much potential in this one.  
Pa'Ko nodded and retook the steps back, offering a classic Narn, fist-to-chest-then-release salute. Rather than returning the gesture Ra'Gon slapped Pa'Ko's hand away, "Never use that salute again!" he bellowed, even over the wind his yell could have been heard streets away.  
Pa'Ko was definitely scared of him now. "Yes sir," Pa'Ko said from behind his wall of fear.  
"Who taught you that anyway?"  
"My father," Pa'Ko said, his expression neutral; it always was when he talked about his parents, he remembered very little of them.  
"Your father? He was a waster, a nobody, why would he teach you the Regime military salute?"  
Pa'Ko just shrugged. Ra'Gon moved on, had he really expected an answer from the young boy? "I will teach you… the ways of the world, the ways of the Thenta Ma'Kur, and the ways of the Warrior. The days ahead will not be easy, and you must study whilst doing separate assignments for the guild. But from now on, your pay will go directly to me."

Pa'Ko was about to kick up a fuss, created a stir, any response that wouldn't mean the loss of his sole form of income. "Do not worry boy," Ra'Gon continued, noting the boy's distress, "I will take from it my fee, and give you enough to maintain a standard of living."  
"I am to live in the gutter where many of my old friends have died?" Pa'Ko said, he was having to raise his voice now; the winds were picking up, soon their conversation, or lesson, or whatever the hell it was, would have to be either discontinued or carried over into a sheltered area where they could wait out the storm.  
"All Thenta Ma'Kur students are expected to live life as low as you can go, to give them a reminder of what life would be like for them and their families if they were to betray the guild," Ra'Gon said, also raising his voice.  
Ra'Gon reached over and grabbed the boy by both arms. Pa'Ko, immediately alarmed by the suddenness of the assault, tried to wriggle free, but to no avail. When the young Narn stopped his feeble escape attempts Ra'Gon spoke, "You are my Macha'Kor, student of blood, be ready for a lesson at any moment."

With those words, and the burn of Pa'Ko's flesh from the growing bruise where the overpowering older Narn had gripped him a little to tightly, Ra'Gon took his leave into the now blustering sands of Hekba City's dusty solace. Pa'Ko, stood motionlessly, allowing himself a moment to consider whether this path was right for him. Then checking the contents of his pockets and finding only a single bloodcoin, decided anything that would keep his belly full, was a good path. And with that, he was gone as well, leaving the collapsing building; an old tavern, at the end of the street on the edge of the slum alone.


	2. Part One, Chapter One

January 27th, 2259

January 27th, 2259

Mars Colony

The roar of the crowd, the excitement and electricity in the air made Mars Dome's number one sporting arena a very special place to be. An enormous stadium that could fit some ten thousand people inside had been a low priority on the Martian colonist's lists of structures to build, but a few hundred years on and it was complete. Those gathered were growing restless with anticipation at the spectacle of sporting excellence they were about to witness. Two athletes in their prime were to face off in the ring situated at the centre of the "Olympus Convivium" the winner receiving infinite glory and honour; for the loser, misery and dismay.

Walker Smith, however, was a million miles for this, metaphorically, not physically, with Mars being about half the size of Earth that is. The contract he'd been offered on the Red Planet to fight with "Topside Promotions" had come to nothing after a few misfortunate results meant Smith was on a Zero-to-four loosing streak and, as his employer reminded him, nobody would pay to see a loser. Disheartened by this and his misfortune out of the ring with a few not-so-nice girls Walker Smith was inside a ring yes but not the ten thousand capacity arena of Olympus, but in front of perhaps a hundred people in a less than reputable part of Mars colony.

His new employer called himself Gregory Talbot, and ran a too-bit promotion called "All Fight, All Night", that emphasized the violence in the sports it showed. Smith had been happy to finally be working for some money; he'd lost his contract with Topside Promotions in October of the previous year and had only found this work two weeks ago, it came just in time to save his apartment from being repossessed. But, he was definitely not happy with his surroundings or the people he was working for. Sure, he admitted to himself when he was alone, he was a little out of shape, a little low and cash and luck; but he could turn those things around. He had been disgraced professionally before but he'd gone to Babylon 5 fought, and won, in the Mutai and the contract offers had started flowing in again. He was convinced it would happen that way again, win a few fights here, earn a bit of doh to keep MarsGov off his back for rent and taxes and he'd soon be able to buy back his exercise equipment; or at the very least join a gym. But that was on the good days, on the bad days when he was alone he sat on his bed, the one piece of furniture he hadn't had to sell, and just think to himself: You're not getting any younger, forty years of life is coming up pretty fast and you know no promoter will take an interest in you then. These thoughts, however, he always made sure were at the very back of his mind most of the time: especially when he was in the ring: and especially with an opponent like this!

Walker Smith's contract, despite his poor success record of late, had been quite a big boon to a small time promoter, and because of it his first competitive match was scheduled against the "All Fight, All Night" championship holder: a large Caucasian male, built like a wrestler; but twice as big and twice as ugly, called Nikolai Conchenkov. If Walker had not been down on his luck he'd have turned down anything that wasn't a straight up boxing match, but "All Fight, All Night" were the only people offering him a contract, and they were an opening fighting company: and that's what he had to settle for.

The atmosphere in the small dark confines of a disused old water reclamation facility, which offered housed all sort of unsavoury activities, wasn't as electric, the crowd not as excitable as those in the Olympus Convivium but as Walker came from the prep-area to the ring, he was greeted by a few hoots and calls: mainly from large hairy men Walker questioned the intentions of. His opponent, the six-foot-five, three-hundred-and-eighty pound goliath awaited him in the ring, watching him like a hawk as Walker approached, most likely conjuring up exactly how he was going to disembowel Walker as soon as that ring bell rang out.

Smith glanced to his left at his employer, Talbot, who shot him a quick and neutral glance between gleefully taking bets from punters almost throwing their credit chits at him. Averting his gaze from the small-time promoter Walker gazed up into the ring, taking a moment to consider the colossal task that awaited him therein. Taking a few deep breaths he took the plunge and leapt through the middle of the top-roped ring with a grace and vigour he'd had as an athlete in his professional game, that was a touch he hoped he wouldn't loose in a hurry.

With his entrance the betting came to a halt and Talbot entered the ring via a small wooden platform that had been setup next to the ring for the express purpose.

"Welcome ladies and gentlemen… who am I kidding? Just gentlemen! To tonight contest brought to you by All Fight, All Night promotions; is for the Promotional Championship: Introducing first, the current All Fight, All Night Champion… The Bear Nikolai Conchenkov!!" The crowd seemed less than impressed, but that somehow fit the quite murmuring of those collected around the small ring, and seemed appropriate in the echoing vastness of the disused reclamation facility.

"And introducing tonight challenger, coming all the way from Earth, via Orion 4, and Babylon 5, he was a Topside Promotion Main Eventer!" The main eventer part was a fabrication, but it put bums in seats; or rather, feet on floor-near-ring. "WALKER… SMITH!!" The crowd responded a little better, but it was doubtful any of those assembled _here_ had even heard of Walker Smith's career back on Earth, nor Orion 4, nor his Mutai success on Babylon 5, as they seemed more interested in earning some money on their bets than watching a sporting spectacle. Garibaldi had always said those two things went hand-in-hand; but hey, Garibaldi says a lot of things.

Smith raised both arms with the call of his name, a traditional hello from the fighter; both to acknowledge the crowd's opinion (boos or cheers) and too display one's physique to their opponent. The latter seemed to have little or no effect on Conchenkov, as the moment the bell rung to begin the contest, the mad Russian ran toward Walker at a speed a man of his size shouldn't be able to. Walker managed to dodge the running attack at the last minute, his big fight night reflexes surfacing once again. Seeing his opponent was serious, and that the championship; or at least the financial reward that came with keeping it, were driving forces behind his actions, Walker kept him aloof; using his speed and agility where able to get in a few swift punches to the man's chest, a few good clean right hands to the cheek.

With the dinging of the bell, and the strutting of a skimpily clad woman, carrying the round number board; who got a bigger cheer than Smith and Conchenkov combined, Round two began. Sweat was now rolling down Walker's brow, not to exclude his uncovered chest. He thought back now to his time preparing for the confrontation and was psychologically patting himself on the back for opting for his classic boxing attire: boots and shorts, rather than the low key shorts and tight T-Shirt Talbot had suggested he wore "to give his character some depth and sell-ability". Pish, Walker thought, fighters should be heralded for their performance: for their ability, not they ability to sell tickets, or make money. Conchenkov had a lot more weight to move around than Smith did, and therefore was showing even more exhaustion than his counterpart. Even in the poor shape Walker was in he had at least three or four more rounds in him before true exhaustion set in: this Conchenkov was obviously in even worse shape than he was. Smith laid in with a few good right hands, then a uppercut with the left which caught "The Bear" unawares and sent him reeling back into the corner post. Walker thought to himself he should be pleased with his performance, but apart from the man's sheer seize he was a poor opponent, and the old Walker Smith would have put him away in the first round. Just as Smith took a moment to catch his thoughts and his breath the Russian charged at him with, what was apparently, his signature running lunge attack. Smith tried to dodge again but caught the brunt of the attack, sending him like a plunging missile to the floor. It was Conchenkov's moment to reveal in a bit of glory, he should have been very proud of himself as the referee began the slow methodical count toward ten. But instead the Mad Russian looked concerned. In his dazed state Walker could have sworn Conchenkov shot a worried look to Talbot, who glared angrily back toward the Russian. Not really his immediate concern, Walker dismissed the quick silent communiqué between the two: doubting they were telepaths it was just probably a warning from his boss not to hurt his newest fighter. He managed to get to his feet at the count of seven, but he was starting to look a little worse for wear. A large right hand he'd taken late in the first round had formed a nice black bruise on the right side of his face and he was sure under his guard he could feel a tooth missing. If Conchenkov had been a prize fighter, someone trained by the best to be the best he would have easily gone for the killer blow now. Walker was bloodied, swollen, and almost beat, if the Russian had gone for one decisive hard blow to the stomach now he would be crowned the winner and Walker would be looking at another lousy loser's pay cheque. Instead the Bear dawdled for a moment, as if unsure of what to do. A second or two passed without any more passing between the two competitors than an angry scowl. Walker was regaining some of his composure now, and some of his fighting spirit. He didn't want to loose, he wouldn't loose.

Smith came back fighting, landing a few choice lefts and rights on the jaw of the Russian, sending him staggering back. With a moment's breather Conchenkov seemed to slip another stare toward Talbot, who was staring back. Was there something between those two Smith needed to worry about? Or not worry about as the case may be. Those thoughts were gone in an instant though as the Russian made a last ditch attempt effort at a big swinging right fist, his timing was off however and Smith laid into the larger man's stomach with a critical slam from his right hand… sending Conchenkov to the mat once and for all. The referee began to count as Walker started to pace the ring, he'd come back from the dead, he felt the adrenaline pumping through his system once again, a few more fights like this, a bit more training and it was the big leagues again for Smith; he could feel it.

"Nine!" the referee called out, holding both hands up with an every changing numbers of fingers stretched out.

Smith took the final seconds before he was about to be declared the victor to sneak a glance towards his promoter. Talbot was looking on, when he found his eyes meeting Smith he simply gave him a congratulatory nod; but it wasn't without a slight hesitation.  
"Ten!" the Ref counted before taking a big step toward the edge of the ring and calling for the bell. It sounded and Smith's right arm was raised in triumph. As the ref paraded Smith around the ring, his arms raised, Conchenkov stirred. The Russian stood and regarded his opponent for a second. Smith turned around in time to meet his advisories' stare, and outstretched his hand in friendship and sportsmanship. Conchenkov shook his head, ignored Walker's offer, and muttered something under his breath, before letting himself out of the ring. A moment later to be replaced by the slightly less gargantuan form of Gregory Talbot, who came toward Smith brandishing the rather tacky looking gold, was it gold? Promotional belt.

"Gentlemen here is tonight's winner, and NEW All Fight, All Night Champion of Mars… WALKER SMITH!"

The announce was met by mixed reviews from the assembled crowd. Some cried for blood, others cried for signatures; but most cried for their winnings from Talbot. The sleazy promoter slapped his new number one talent, and promotional champion, on the back heartily before descending out of the ring to address his betting business matters. Smith took his cue and escaped the spotlight too, his clambered out of the ring with much less grace than he'd entered it with; but he had just been through a gruelling fight. He headed toward the double doors that led to a former worker canteen which Talbot had converted into a locker room, but was stopped when his employer called out: "Hey Walker! Don't you be going anywhere, I'll be needing a word with you." Despite being born, breed, and raised on the Martian Colony Talbot still managed to have that Southern United States drawled all wrestling promoters seemed to have. Walker turned and nodded, thankfully taking a towel from one of the on-hands and heading into the locker room.

He'd wanted to ask what problem Conchenkov had with him. Whether the dis inside the ring had been for show, as he knew how some fighters were for being showmen, or whether he really had no respect for the man that had been him. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, the large Russian was nowhere to be seen: and the locker Walker had seen him use earlier was left open… empty. Shrugging and putting that one down for experience he tapped in the four digit code that allowed entry to his locker, he grabbed a bottle of synthetic water and drank deeply, it modified contests boasted to improve on H2O and offer revitalizing effects that would sooth and reinvigorate, at least that's what the commercials had said. Walker thought it just tasted like the tap water he'd been drinking out of his apartment, but who was he to judge at the free drinks Talbot supplied his talent. With the intention of getting a shower, or at least what passed for a shower on a world with no natural water, he headed toward the make-shift area expressly created for that purpose but what halted en-route by Talbot.

"Hey champ!" Talbot called out, stopping Smith dead in his tracks. "Hell of a bout tonight, a?"

"Yeah, it was okay," Smith said trying to stay non-committal, for all he knew Talbot was a huge Conchenkov fan and hadn't been best pleased with the result.

"But I've seen Nikolai fight better," Talbot admitted. There for that theory then, Smith crossed that one off in his mind.

"Yeah, he seemed off form. Missing opportunities where I had my guard down. Especially in that second round. It's almost as if…"

And then it all fell into place. He'd never been involved in this sort of thing previous, it was frowned upon bigtime in the major leagues; but down here, where nobody cared it was all so easy.

"Say," Smith said smiling, he wanted to prove his latest theory, "Did you by any chance have some bets on tonight's event yourself?"

Talbot laughed dismissively, "Of course not, as a promoter of the event it'd be careless of me to…" Talbot stopped, he caught something in Walker's eyes, a look of understand? Wonder? Suspicion?

"But," Talbot said after a moment's hesitation and mental deliberation "But a long-distance gambler by the Toblat did have a bet. A bet that you'd win the championship by Knockout toward the end of the second round actually."

Talbot smiled insincerely.

"Toblat?" Smith said with a puzzled face, why was this man of any relevance to..? What a minute, "Talbot backwards."

"Got it in a nutshell," Talbot said, his smile even bigger and more insincere, even menacing in it's size now. "Hey, I won some money… you won the title belt. I thought you'd appreciate the gesture."

Smith took a step back, he didn't like being so close to someone so slimy, so sleazy, so… low. He thought for a moment, anger racing inside him. "What I appreciate," he finally said, "Is winning fair fights."

Talbot considered his next words long and hard, he didn't like Walker's attitude that's for sure. But was he angry at Smith's ingratitude?

"Walker, I'm going to ask a favour of you."

Smith would have laughed if the situation had not been his own, the same words, the same circumstances on an old Soap Opera vid would have made for some good humorous watching: but being in the here and now was not so fun.

"I don't think I'll be wanting to do you any favours Mister Talbot. In fact," Smith paused, he was about to throw away another contract, work… money, and what was perhaps his last chance at the sport he loved. He lost everything else, what was one more thing? "I don't think I want to be part of your promotion anymore."

Talbot smiled faded and he took a few demonic-like steps towards his soon to be former employee. "You can't. You are the new All Fight, All Night Champion… besides you've got a contract."

"A contract isn't worth the paper it's printed on down here and you know it," Smith counted, he was expecting Talbot's line.

"What's your dream Walker?" Talbot asked, changing tack, the look of anger was gone replaced inside by a much softer more neutral expression.

When Smith wasn't forthcoming with the requested information Talbot made several presumptions to answer his question and continued: "To fight your way back to the top? To get a contract with Topside Promotions again? To be the champion again?"

"Yeah, pretty much. We have all gotta have goals."

Talbot nodded, he agreed with Smith's last statement at least. "True my friend, true. Then why oh why are you stomping on those dreams?"

"I won't be involved with matching fixing and I don't want to be involved with anyone who HAS anything to do with matching fixing. I'm sorry I can't honour my contract Mister Talbot, but I got my own ass to worry about."

"But you are already involved with match fixing Mister Smith," Talbot matched Walker's use of their unfamiliar names, countered Smith's attempt to alienate himself from the ramifications of the conversation.

"If you walk out of your contract, decline to grant my favour – And you'll be finished. Conchenkov's fighting days are over, he's old, overweight and he knows it. He'll be rewarded handsomely to admit you paid him to fix the fight. And I'll attribute some creative record making to my books that shows an anonymous Mister Smith made a substantial bet on you winning the fight." Talbot grinned devilishly, definitely pleased with an evening's work.

"You'd set me up?" Walker exclaimed, he could hardly believe his ears, was he really going through this? How many breaks does a guy get? None on Mars anyway he was quickly finding out.

"That's such an ugly way of putting it Mister Smith. I prefer to call it… no, there really isn't any other way of putting it is there? Yes, I'm setting you up. You have no choice but to grant me my favour."

Smith hung his head. A match fix, even at this crummy two-bit promotion would make the news nets, and if Smith's name was associated it would only make the story more news worthy and soon his reputation would be in tatters, along with any other hope of making it back to the big leagues. He looked at the face of Talbot, the man who could have been his salvation, his ticket back to the top, but was now the man who had become his keeper.

"What's the favour?" Smith asked, not looking up.

"There's a man. Senator Wilfred Manning," Talbot begun, "He's a big boxing fan. He's a big fan of yours too you know. I've heard him bragging about his collection, he even managed to get the vids of your Mutai fights."

"So what? You want me to meet him and sign a few damn autographs?"

"Not quite that simple Mister Smith, but almost." Talbot now was pacing the locker room, the noise from the crowd warming up for whatever spectacle used the public space next, could only faintly be heard, it made Smith feel very much alone.

"You are to get close to him. Talk to him."

"What the hell about? What the hell would a senator tell a former boxer that could be so important to a small time promoter like you?"

"Because," Talbot said, in a rare emotional moment; obviously not liking the link between his own name and small time, but he calmed down by the next word. "I'm not just a promoter. I'm also a patriot."

Smith's heart sank even further, if that was at all possible, "You're a radical? Free Mars and all that?"

Talbot gave a solitary laugh, "HA! We're not all radicals. You watch too much news, but yes I belong to a group separate from the Free Mars movement, but we do have the same common goals. I just happen to prefer the indirect approach to causing riots and blowing stuff up!"

Smith was glad to hear the latter, perhaps underneath the cold and heartless exterior Talbot was a descent man, maybe just desperate to further his cause.

"This senator has a powerful voice in EarthDome, he just happens to be spending a lot of his time on Mars currently. I need you to get close to him, make friends with him, get him away from his security and anybody who might want to listen in on your little 'talk' and find out his plans for the new Martian Immigration Policies."

Smith was still for a moment, and silent for a moment later than that; his night had started out okay. Every fighter's has his pre-fight rituals, Smith's were less rigorous than most, a simple prayer and sip of this H20 substitute and he was off. He'd won a fight, originally he thought fairly and been crowned the champion. Thoughts of regaining his reputation, and his place where he belonged in Topside, flooding his mind, and even the gleeful thought of a nice fat pay cheque. But all of that had been wrenched away from him in a matter of moments, and now the reality of his life now was just doing what Talbot told him to do and hope he'd let him go without leaking the story to the press and ruining Smith's chances forever.

"That's all?" Smith asked for confirmation, it didn't sound to hard, too risky. In fact it sounded quite easy. Just make friends with a boxing fan, _his_ fan, how hard could that be? Get a private meeting with him set up where nobody could interrupt or butt in and simply steer the conversation toward Martian Immigration Policy. Garibaldi did things like this all the time, why couldn't he?

"And you'll never mention the match fixing?" again Smith wanted confirmation on the deal, as if he had any choice.

"Not unless you do," Talbot smiled, he obviously loved it when a plan came together.

The promoter held out his hand, he was a businessman and wanted to seal the deal in the traditional way. Smith shook his head, not Talbot's hand.

"Nah," he said taking a step or two toward the showers again, "I won't shake that again until this is over." Without another word Walker headed into the showers, all of a sudden he felt dirty.

June 12th, 2259

Narn Homeworld

Barely two month into his training the fourteen year old Narn, Pa'Ko, had already learned so much. The reptilian ancestry the Narn possessed allowed the learning of new talents quickly, in fact Narn infants have been known to walk straight out of the pouch. The credit could not be done to genetics alone as Pa'Ko's Thenta Ma'Kur instructor Ra'Gon was certainly a skilled one. He was a third generation assassin, his father and grand father both fighting bravely during the earlier days of the Centauri occupation: eventually becoming to clever for their own good and meeting their end in Centauri gallows. Ra'Gon had been part of the Narn Freedom Fighters that eventually drove the Republic's armies from the barren Narn surface, but his involvement had been much more temper… much more subtle. Ra'Gon had mused many times if his particular talents were just superior to his predecessors, but stray thoughts like that were an indulgence, especially now with the Narn Regime's military might stretching it's hand out to the stars the Thenta Ma'Kur's secret work was needed now more than ever to keep society running smoothly and to make sure everyone was kept in their place. Pa'Ko's training had started as little more than a distraction for Ra'Gon, the elderly Narn had a degenerative syndrome that meant his own body was failing him; passing his wisdom and skills down to another generation of Thenta Ma'Kur was his last gift. It was only now, in the twilight of his life, did he regret not having a child of his own to pass the knowledge down to. But now the work had taken on a life of it's own, Pa'Ko's willingness to learn and his speedy progress made the work an easy and enjoyable process and Ra'Gon now found himself almost looking forward to his time with the young boy.

Weapon handling had come naturally to the young one, his previous callings tricking some offworlders and helping a fellow Hekba Slum dweller with a long overdue Shon'Kar, had seen to his training. But what came slower to Pa'Ko was the knowledge and patience behind brandishing a weapon. Ra'Gon had put it down to the impertinence of youth, and had endeavoured to make Pa'Ko fully understand what it meant to take another's life, to wield a sacred sword, to see the life draining from another's eyes as he impaled his victims, before moving the lessons on.

To this end Ra'Gon had taken a minor contract with a client. It paid poorly and was a job normally assigned to one of the lower level Thenta Ma'Kur members, definitely not the sort of mission Ra'Gon would have considered himself going on. It would, however, provide a good proving ground for Pa'Ko's lesson. A small time arms dealer, who specialized in the reconstructed and re-energizing of all Centauri Warmachines left behind after the occupation was having a problem with an Outer Circle Narn in the control centre of the nearby spaceport. This particular gun-runner's wares were mostly sold offworld. The Narn homeworld itself was a spectacle of law and order, or what passed for such in the Narn Regime, and few weapons of this magnitude were required there, so most of them were shipped out; registered as agricultural machinery on the transport's manifest of course, to the outer Narn worlds. Or to such annexed worlds like Tuchanq where the Narn administration lacked the full backing of the military and therefore it's Narn population took the law and protection of themselves and their families into their own hands. The problem with the Narn in the control centre was this: for years the client had been paying off said Narn in said Control Centre to look the other way, but now he was demanding more money to keep quiet and threatening to go to the authorities. Not wanting blood on his own hands, for his businesslike reputation, the client sent out a request to the Thenta Ma'Kur to make the Narn pestering for more money to simply disappear.

This was why, now, under the cover of darkness Pa'Ko, short of stature but big of heart and daring, was crouched behind a few empty cargo containers waiting for the Narn on guard to turn his back sufficiently for Pa'Ko to make a move. As the noise from a taking off cargo shuttle's firing retroboosters filled the soundwaves Pa'Ko came out of hiding and caught the guard in the back of the head with a meticulously practiced karate chop. The impact on the guard's nerve ending had an immediate effect, rending the guard's body inert for several hours before returning him to complete mobility with no side effects, well almost no side effects.

With this accomplish the Narn-in-Training made his way along the row of cargo containers that made almost a barrier around the port. Ren'Taka, or "Freeport" was a small space port located in the middle of the Narn desert several hundred clicks from the nearest settlement and was specifically used for cargo haulage as it's large open, flat, landing area provided ample space for larger Cargo haulage space-worthy craft. The spaceport consisted over no fewer than eighteen landing zones, the earlier, smaller ones, still bore the Centauri writing from when this had been a Centauri hospital landing facility, and were concentrate, but the larger outer landing zones were merely marked out in the dirt with simple blood-red paint. To the east of the original landing areas was the Control Centre, a large building obviously originally Centauri, but had since been blown up at one time or another and rebuilt using Narn materials to make an interestingly coloured hybrid.

It was this Control Centre that was Pa'Ko destination, and armed with nothing more than a dagger, the words and training given to him by Ra'Gon before setting off on this mission, and his wits Pa'Ko would admit to anyone at the age of fourteen he was scared. With the noise from the shuttle's engines dying down Pa'Ko quickened his pace, his excellent night vision aiding him in gracefully navigating the obsolete cargo crates and he managed to find a covert spot to still and wait for the next audible disguise only a stone's throw away from the Control Centre. A blast of a shuttle's rockets a few minutes later provided the cover he needed and the littlest assassin sneaked toward the last unsuspected guard, who he disabled in a quick fluid movement using the same martial arts move as before. He made his way hasty up the set of metal stairs the sentry had been guarding which wound their way up the outside of the Control Centre, entering via the buildings only door on the highest level. Ascending the stairs was easy, but he now had to slip into the hustle and bustle of the Control Centre without being noticed and deal with the client's target however he deemed necessary. The plan, which Pa'Ko would admit Ra'Gon formulated for him, had gone without a hitch but beyond arriving at the Control Centre the plan said nothing. Ra'Gon had made it expressively clear that the last part of the mission would be an essential part of Pa'Ko's training. At first the young one had not even considered it a problem, he had the fine details of how to disable the scanner grid around the facility and disable any sentries he encountered; all without being discovered. This task had occupied so much of his mind he actually realised only when reached the top of the stairs he had no idea what he was going to do now. Wait for the target to take a break? How long would that be? Long enough for the guards he'd only rendered unconscious to awake from their slumber and sound the alarm? Meaning dozens more previously unseen guards would appear and hunt Pa'Ko long into the night and into the depths of the Narn desert.

Summoning the courage, or perhaps delaying the inevitability of failing to conjure a cohesive way forward, Pa'Ko found his mind drifting to his past. Not his training with Ra'Gon, or the years of hardship he'd endured in the Hekba slums, but; of all things, to the few strained remaining memories of his parents. It had been a subject the desire to bring up with his teacher was strong, but Ra'Gon had dismissed earlier attempts to steer the conversation that way with angry results. Pa'Ko had soon learned not to mention it in front of his tutor, but he definitely decided Ra'Gon knew more about his mother and father than he'd admit to. Perhaps it was one of the reasons Pa'Ko had been selected as his trainee. The most vivid of the scattered collection of memories was one of the very oldest, it was as if his mind held onto it for all it was worth. Pa'Ko's family, he could remember, were never very rich; but they were above the absolute poverty Pa'Ko had lived in for much of his life. As he grew to understand Narn society as a whole he guessed his father could have been outer circle, perhaps even eighth circle. His mother had been a good wife, he remembered her always being around him… staying at home looking after house and baby, but he had no outstanding memories of her. Instead the one that became most prominent was a day, a windy, dusty day as they all were on Narn, when his father rushed in panting, looking worried. Pa'Ko was barely out of the pouch at the time and missed the beating of his father's heart, the sound of his voice. He remembered reaching out for him but being brushed away. Told to stay in the other room. His father and mother had raised voices, but it didn't sound like they were arguing it sounded as if they were worried. The next thing Pa'Ko knew his mother came him, held him tightly and then… then… something happened. Pa'Ko had always tried to remembered, tried to get himself to reveal the rest of the story, all he knew was it resulted in the nasty but almost unnoticeable scar that ran the length of the boy's face from his right ear to his chin. It was a mark they'd said would dull in time, but it had not. It had grown and distorted further as Pa'Ko had grown; perhaps attributed to his harsh environment.

He shook his head, sending that memory, that pain, back down to the deep recesses of his Narn mind. As he opened his eyes, the thoughts banished, the focus on the task at hand returned and a new confidence and motivation founded itself within him. Nothing he had learned, nothing he had ever heard about the Thenta Ma'Kur said they only conducted cloak and dagger operations. Who ever said he couldn't go in guns a'blazing? The fact he only had a ceremonial dagger perhaps? It was the part of the covert all black outfit Ra'Gon had provided Pa'Ko before the mission, was this his teacher's way of making the assignment even harder? Tough love seemed to be Ra'Gon's mantra after all. Pa'Ko readied himself behind the thick Narn Blood Oak door, dagger drawn he had a mental image of the man he'd been sent here to kill ready. One, he said to himself, two, count to three then barge in he'd decided on… find his man, execute him in cold blood and leave in the most hasty fashion available to him. Th… he stopped himself, his body already pulled slightly away from the door to allow a small run-up. He heard louder voices now, as if someone from inside was heading his way. What time was it? Time for a shift change? No… his assault had been planned to avoid such changes in case unconscious sentries were missed easily. He could hear the voices now, even louder; they must have been at the very door he was stood outside of. Reacting quickly and without needing a second thought as the door slowly creaked open, Pa'Ko descended the stairs to a point just around the corner; where he'd lie in wait for this inconvenience. The door open fully, and the voices stopped… replaced with the sound of heavy footsteps on the metal grating of the stair's composition.

All the preparation in the world however didn't help Pa'Ko. The man came around the corner, and froze. Pa'Ko, somehow he wasn't ready for this: he'd knocked out to guards already but… he hadn't seen their eyes, seen the look of surprise and terror on their faces. All of a sudden it had become personal. There was no choice now, as the heavy set Narn Controller began to turn to yell to assistance Pa'Ko drew his dagger and plunged it deep into his discover's throat, rending speech impossible. As the body collapsed to the floor in a bloody mess Pa'Ko holstered his dagger and stepped aside. It was the first time he'd actually killed a man, and no matter the new found disgust he had for himself, he knew it wouldn't be his last. Now the look a demonic entity across his features he marched up to the Control Centre, the mental image in his mind again: holding it close so he knew which of them to kill. At least to limit the death, put a tap on the amount of blood on his hands. The Blood Oak door was swinging lightly on it's hinges in the slight evening breeze. Grabbing the inside of the door Pa'Ko made an impactual entrance by thrusting it violently open with a loud crash. The inside room was a massive sprawl of computers, obviously amateurly networked together with huge tangles of cabling everywhere. Three more equally obese Narns occupied three chairs, the fourth empty one belonging to the man Pa'Ko had just needlessly murdered. All of a sudden, confronted with the same look of surprise and terror he'd met before Pa'Ko froze, the image of the man he had been sent to kill escaped him and he found himself directionless. Drawing his dagger seemed like a good idea, they probably already knew any unexpected intruder at this time of night was bound to be reasonably hostile, and he wanted to make sure they were too scared to sound any sort of alarm.

"Which of you is Ma'La?" he asked, the name didn't evade him… only the face.

The shortest of the bunch, and also thinnest (It wasn't much of a contest though looking at his opposition), rose from his seat ignoring an array of blinking lights on his control panel. "Pa'Ko?" he said sounding as if he'd seen a ghost. He took a few steps forward, obviously not afraid of his would-be assassin. "Pa'Ko is that you? It must be you my boy… that scar… who else could have _that_ scar." The man pointed gingerly, remembering Pa'Ko still had a weapon, toward the scar that ran the length of the young one's face. Pa'Ko twisted away, still embarrassed; not as the existence of the scar, but the lack of a story of courage and honour that lead to him receiving it.

"H… How do you know me?" Pa'Ko stuttered. He was supposed to be the hotshot in-training assassin. One that would kill you as soon as look at you, he had broken into a secure compound after all… incapacitated two guards, and killed a tech. But all of a sudden he looked so young, felt so very young. Was it his uniform? Was it too big? Was it the dagger that looked so large inside his tiny clenched fist.  
"Pa'Ko! It is you isn't it," the Narn sounded overjoyed, as if he'd run into a long lost friend in the street. Only Pa'Ko was fourteen, and didn't have many friends, let alone long lost ones that worked in Spaceports.

"I… I'm Ja'Nar, I served with your father in the resistance. He… he was a good man, he always ranted and raved about you… his little Pa'Ko, his little warrior. When the unfortunate happened it was me and my bondmate that helped you escape them."

"Escape? What? You knew my father? I…"

All of a sudden an alarm started. And all of a sudden Pa'Ko instincts returned, those that were for natural survival and those instilled in him by Ra'Gon's intensify training. The mental image returned. Pa'Ko stormed passed this Ja'Nar, pushing him aside with a previous unknown strength brandishing his dagger at arms length and approached the largest of the Narn's, who had remained seated and silent through the proceedings.

"You!" Pa'Ko screamed, "Are Ma'La! A contract has been placed on your head with the Thenta Ma'Kur." He muttered a short prayer in an ancient Narn tongue and plunged the knife into the chest of the terrified technician. The bleeding body lurched forward; only Pa'Ko quick reflexes saved him from being pinned down.

With the alarm still sounding Pa'Ko leaped towards the door, allowing the indulgence of one last look back at Ja'Nar, the man that claimed to know his father. He would remember that face, the one with a look of absolute horror. "You knew my father," Pa'Ko said standing at the door. Ja'Nar could only nod. The information noted, and escape paramount Pa'Ko exited and disappeared into the night.


	3. Part One, Chapter Two

January 28th, 2259

January 28th, 2259

Mars Colony

Walker Smith had had a day to dwell on the depth of unpleasantness he was now involved. Garibaldi had told him to stay on Babylon 5… the Mutai-Do had offered for him to stay, why did he never listen to anybody else? Was it a universal human failing? Or just his own stubborn stupidity that always made him believe he knew the world around them just a little bit better than everyone else. Or did trouble follow him? Stalk him like the reaper, it had found him on Orion 4, and now it found him here.

He dawdled along the bustling walkways of Utopia Planum, the Colony's premiere shopping district. He had money burning a hole in his pocket for the first time in a while and he'd come out with the intention of spending a little to at least get a momentarily release for the chore of his life currently. Get a vid, maybe a few pictures or ornaments to liven up his room and replace the one's he'd had to sell.

He looked around him, he saw many faces; 99 were Human, but there was the odd Brakiri, Llort, a few Drazi dotted here and there… even the occasional Centauri tourist. He wondered how many of them, seemingly happy now, were involved in something they didn't like? Sure, he guessed most of them hated their jobs: who didn't? But he wondered how many were trapped, really trapped, like he was. These things occupying his every thought he failed to notice the alien he just passed. He stopped, and turned around. He knew that face. He found that the alien had done the same thing. Walker's expression grew into a smile, and a big one at that: and the first genuine one since arriving on the Red Planet.  
"Caliban!" he exclaimed resisting the urge to embrace his old friend for fear of offending him, instead offering the Mutai salute, which Caliban mimicked, and then a warm hand shake.

Caliban was an alien, from where Smith had never liked to ask, and of an age Smith had never liked to ask. Although through a few things Walker had heard him mention during their time together he believed him old enough to have fought on one side or other during the Dilgar War nearly 30 years ago. Caliban had fought in the Mutai after that, even achieving the status of it's champion on more than one occasion, and had retired to Babylon 5 where he watched, and waited, for the right student. And when Walker Smith, the first Human ever to be so very determined to fight in the sacred squared circle, Caliban found that student.

"What the heck are you doing on Mars? It's a hell of a long way from Babylon 5!" Smith spoke from experience, the haul had been an unbearably long one there, and coincidentally enough had been an unbearably long one back.

"I come to seek your friendship once again Walker Smith," Caliban said rather awkwardly. His fighting skills were second to know, and no one could challenge the expertise of his teaching and motivational methods, but an old injury had left Caliban unable to form words correctly, and it made the translator work overtime. Because of this, and perhaps in all his elderly wisdom, only spoke when it was required.

"Hey! You're always welcome at my place, that might be kinda hard at the moment though. My furniture is… kind of in a state of flux. I'm redecorating! That's right. Maybe I could help you get set up in a hotel somewhere for your stay? I don't mind putting up some of the fee?"

Caliban held his hand up to belay Walker's enthusiasm. "I have enough resources to stay, do not concern yourself. Is there somewhere we can go privately?"

Walker nodded, the grin had still not left his face. Maybe, just maybe, this was a sign from the all mighty that his luck was about to turn around. Maybe it was the visible light beaming out of Smith at his fortunate, his physical size, or the colourful nature of his choice of shirt, but the crowd seemed to disperse in front of Walker and Caliban as the African man led his old friend to a quiet café just off the main high street of Utopia Planum's shopping district. They found a table and Walker bought them both a drink, although Caliban asked only for water, and he waited for Caliban to tell him the _real_ reason he'd come all the way to Mars.

"I saw your last fight," Caliban said thankfully taking a sip of the chilled water. Smith looked puzzled, his last fight? They broadcast that trash?  
"I didn't know they recorded all those off-the-record fights?" Walker asked.

"They don't. I have been on Mars for several days. Although I was covert in my appearance I was surprised you didn't see me in attendance. But I presume your mind was on more important issues than this silly old man."

"Don't say things like that. I've always got time for my friends. No matter what, you can ask Garibaldi. How is he anyways?!"  
"Your friend the security chief has not set foot near the Mutai since you left. So I have not set foot near the security chief since you left. I am sorry I cannot provide you with anymore news."

Walker's smile faded slightly, but only slightly, he hadn't expected too much had he?

"You were saying about my last fight?" Walker asked, jumping the subject back to something; slightly, less painful than leaving the one friend he had in the universe behind.

"He was a poor opponent, his heart, or his mind were not in the fight. Your success seemed inevitable from the beginning," Caliban said taking a gulp, this time, of his water.

Walker fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat, should he tell his friend about why his opponent was so poor last night? Or should he keep his mouth shut, and Caliban safely away from the series of unfortunate circumstances that had left him wandering the shopping arcades of Utopia Planum with a face as long as a horse's.

"I've got a fight tonight," he finally said, was that the slightly less painful conversational option? I'd hate to have tried the painful one Walker thought woefully.

"You should come along and watch. In fact you could be in my corner!" When Walker's invitation met with silence, he added, "It would be an honour."

Caliban smiled and nodded, although all did not seem right. Something in his eyes had changed, it was the way he now looked at Smith; had he a little less respect for the young man? "Yes," Caliban said, "I will be in your corner Walker Smith."

The two traded arrangements, time, places, to meet later in the evening shortly before the fight and partly company with another warm handshake. With the distraction Caliban's impromptu visit summoned gone Smith's walk home was a solemn one at that.

Twenty hundred hours soon rolled onto Walker's clock face. His _new_ clock, that he'd purchased hoping it would cheer him up in one of the smaller establishments on the high street; it gave him a sense of wellbeing giving his money to a small time businessman rather than another greedy Earth-Corp that seemed to run everything these days. He had gone for a quick jog, and did an hour or so in the gym but nothing strenuous on fight night, he didn't want to risk an injury. Having to fight two nights in a row was going to be gruelling for Smith but his contract called for his repeated appearances, and lord knows he couldn't violate his contract now! He readied himself in his fighter attire, his classic boxing gear, and threw a loose grey sweatshirt and a pair of jogging bottoms on over the top for the quick walk to the abandoned Water Reclamation facility where all Talbot's fights took place. He'd arranged to meet Caliban in the locker room at half past so he'd plenty of time to get their, mentally prepare not only to fight but to face that grinning suited monkey; Talbot again, before having to meet his mentor.

Catching him completely unawares Talbot's broad figure appeared seemingly out of nowhere in Smith's path. "Whoa," he exclaimed, genuinely shocked by the man's appearance.

"Good evening Mister Smith. How's my number one talent today?" Talbot asked, the tone in his voice made the pleasantries seem a chore.

"Your championship belt and your new attire to go with it are in my locker. I expect you to wear them this evening, the punters are expecting it."

Walker almost added, "Are the punters expecting a fair fight too?" almost.

"I hear you've asked an outsider to be in your corner at tonight's event?" Talbot continued. Walker was taken aback for a second, "How did you…"

"Nothing much to do with my business escapes me Mister Smith. It shouldn't be a problem as long as you don't tell him our…" the passed correlating the right words with a sloshing of his mouth, "Arrangement."

Walker just nodded, there was a noose around his neck and Talbot was the ominous man in the black hood. "Speaking of which," Talbot continued making a step to the right to counter Smith's attempt to carry on his way. "Senator Manning will be at Topside's main event, it's one of the few moments he's away from his security contingent. That match starts at Nine-P-M Mars Standard Time, as does yours. I suggest you be there."

"You're letting me out of working tonight?"

"I think you've missed understood me Mister Smith. You're to compete tonight for All Fight, All Night, and then proceed to the Topside promotion to meet with the Senator. Those tickets will be awfully expensive that long after doors closing. I hope the generous pay packet you're collecting from me wasn't all spent on that clock of yours?" With that Talbot gave a devilish smile, that was just a little reminder from him anything Walker did was under his watchful stare, and added "See you out there Mister Smith." And with that Talbot finally stepped aside, to slip back into whatever shadows had spawned him. Walker, his morale rock bottom once again now he was forced to stare his reality straight in the face, headed for the locker room before he'd be late to see Caliban.

"Sorry," Walker said rushing past his friend toward the changing rooms. Caliban followed his running-late friend inside and stood silently as Walker began to change.

"I was discussing a few things with Mister Talbot," Walker said as way of explanation. Again Caliban remained silent, was he disappointed at Walker's lack of punctuality? Or did he know about his and Talbot's dodgy dealings.

"I have met your opponent face to face," Caliban finally said, "You are to fight Conchenkov once again tonight."

"The Bear?!" Walker said lasing up his boots, he'd gotten changed in double quick time. "I'm fighting him again?"

"It is a poor choice. If he fights with the will he did previous then the match will be of a poor calibre. He will learn nothing from another loss, and you will learn nothing beating an opponent again who you have beaten so recently."

Walker, now ready to go, stood firmly upright and nodded at his friend. "You're right Caliban, but this ain't the Mutai anymore. Things aren't done on Mars for honour, prestige… they're just done for credits, for money. And if Talbot has scheduled me fight this Russian guy then that's what I'm gonna do." Walker paused, he realized he'd just given his mentor a rant he didn't deserve. "Sorry," Smith said a moment later, the truth running through his apology, "That's just the way this part of Mars is anyway."

Caliban opened his mouth to speak, but shut it again when the low background noise of a shower ceased and Conchenkov came strolling into the locker room. His huge form filling the entirety of the space Talbot and Smith had both occupied the previous night.

"Ha! Little Walker Smith back for more a?" Conchenkov said, he may be Russian but his ascent certainly didn't give you that impression.

Walker didn't say a word, he silently smirked; at least giving the pretence of confidence but in reality he knew if Conchenkov was to have a real fight with Walker this evening Smith didn't stand much of a chance.

There was a DING and the match was underway. Talbot held his usual position on the outskirts of the crowd, stood on his soapbox, collecting bets. Caliban was in Smith's corner, as he'd promised; and was intently focused on the fighting style Walker was used looking at ways he could help his friend improve. Walker was not having a pleasant time… half way through the first round, a small trickle of blood already coming from his mouth and having not landed a single hit on his opponent! In a rare breath catching moment Smith glanced over at Talbot, who made an obvious move to look at his watch. Smith was running out of time, he still needed to finish the fight, get changed and rush to the Topside Promotion match AND get a seat somewhere near Senator Manning. Walker didn't have more than a moment to consider all this though as, distracted by Talbot and his agenda, he was caught off guard by Conchenkov lunging spear attack. Suddenly Smith found himself pinned down by the big ape of a man his head pummelled, this was a fight after all not a sporting boxing match. The referee eventually dragged Conchenkov off from his vicious assault, but it was all too late. The lights were starting to dance around Smith's head, then a series of stars circled around his vision and he knew it was time to call it quits. In a better situation, on a different day, he would have gotten up, but on this day, he gave up. For the first time Walker had genuinely thrown a match. Not because he'd been paid to, instructed too, or other coerced to; but because he didn't want to get up, he didn't want to fight, he didn't even care if he won. Rushing from the ring amidst boos from the crowd and a distressed looking Caliban, Smith headed for the locker room. He avoiding in particular the mirrors as if he'd looked in them he doubt he'd even recognize the person staring back at him anymore.

Having excused himself as politely as his time constraints allowed from Caliban's company and used the very last of his pay cheque to purchase some dubiously authentic tickets for Topside's promotional main event, Walker now sat in Row D, Sat 35. He had never met this Senator Manning in person, in fact he'd never even have heard of him before Talbot mentioned the name in his pseudo-mission meeting yesterday evening. Smith had however spent his sleepless night watching ISN feeds in the local bar, researching the man he had to befriend. Wilfred Manning, apparently, was an influential senator who had fallen out of favour on Earth since President Clark had taken over office following the accident aboard Earth Force One last December, and been sent to Mars Dome. Which was the political version of the lower leagues. Not content, however, to endure his political exile Manning was making quite an impact in Mars Dome, putting up for approval before the Senate and local councils his policies on open Mars immigration and even government back emigration. His policies, ISN said, would bring a brighter future for Mars, with lower taxes for businesses hiring new Martians to encourage both new business and people to the colony. His policies weren't popular with Martian independence groups for obviously reasons. Despite humanity only having stamped it's claim to the Red Planet little over a century ago the generations of humans born and bred on Mars had become distinctly different from those anywhere else in the Alliance, and had even started to develop a psychological hatred of Earthers. Talbot was a member of one independence group or another and had made Smith's contribution to their freedom effort abundantly clear, just get on friendly terms with his boxing fan of a Senator, and get the core details of his policies. What the hell Talbot expected from Walker he didn't really grasp, but if he'd ever have a hope of returning to the big leagues he'd have to go along with it.

Smith had been watching his pray so intently he'd missed the final punch of the fight. He wasn't sure on the names of the participants but the larger of the two men had just knocked the smaller one clean out and the referee was raising his hand in victory. Walker was knocked from his intense stare by the sudden rush of emotion from the crowd as the victory was recorded; it was now or never. A few minutes passed, and Smith remained in his seat watching hawkishly the nearest entrance waiting for the Senator to file out. As the remaining numbers started to dwindle Smith found himself panicking, had he left via another exit? He rose to his seat to search for the man's face amongst the last few remaining without avail. His heart pounding now Smith waded into the sea of people as they cued to exit the arena, but relief washed over him when he caught since of the senator's hazelnut hair atop Manning's head still sat firmly in his place. Smith smiled to himself, he had to take every little victory, and then approached. "Senator Manning?" he asked cautiously, he might have been mistaken, as mistaken as anyone could've been after watching the man on ISN for about three or four hours.

"Yeah?" the Senator said, his British heritage was evident not only in his accent but also his dress sense and quaint-essential manor.

"Hey!" Manning said his eyes widening like a child seeing candy. "You're Walker Smith. THE Walker Smith."

Walker smiled, it had been a long long time since someone had actually been surprised, excited, or in anyway adulated to meet "the Walker Smith".

"Got it in one Senator. It's not often people actually remember who I am."

Manning scoffed, "Doubtful! You used to be the best, I mean your fight against Tysonov was awesome! And then that fight with that Centauri fighter Xonnel, on Orion 4…"

Smith's grin was obviously, and he was unable to subdue it despite the morbid duty that had brought him together with, apart from Garibaldi, his own surviving fan.

"Yeah, those Centauri fighters sure do pack a damned wallop! I was feeling that one for weeks!"

"Please, Please," the Senator said patting the plastic seat next to him. Walker nodded and took the offering. He also took the opportunity to look into Manning's eyes, they looked tired… old… those were the things he expected. What he didn't expect however was the kindness, the worry, and the genuine warmth that eradiated from them. He hoped in the future Talbot didn't have any other plans for this balding father of two. (Another helpful tidbit from ISN).

"Did you see the whole fight?" Manning asked, he was like a kid at one of those old Sci-Fi conventions finally meeting the stars of his favourite shows.

"I didn't unfortunately. Other commitments and all," Walker hated to lie, a bent truth wasn't a lie. "But the crowd sure are behind him." Walker used 'him' as apposed to the fighter's actual name, hoping that Manning would drop it into conversation for him to pick up on and use. It's surprisingly easy to bluff your way through a sporting conversation, especially when your opposite is very passionate about talking about the sport. Walker endured a few minutes of Manning's boxing waffle before Walker looked at his watch, how much time would the Senator sit here and just walk about sport? He needed to get him to walk about his political self. The senator consciously noticed Walker's clock watching, "Hey!" he exclaimed, "I've kept you too long! I'm sure a boxing legend such as yourself has some very beautiful woman he's leaving at home lonely because you're talking to this old washed up politician."

Walker nodded, he was tired; but maybe he could get the Senator to met him again in private, away from his security where he could get him to talk about politics from the start. Maybe take him to the same bar he'd watched ISN at the night before to set a political backdrop to their conversation to get him to open a little. It'd also give Smith some time to fabricate a story that might get the Senator to reveal a bit more which would be of use to Talbot.

"I tell you what," Walker said, "I don't suppose you'd be free tomorrow lunchtime to perhaps have a drink or something? Just talk about sport and that…" That sounded lame, Walker said to himself, was he trying to ask this guy out on a date or what?

The Senator smiled and nodded, "I'd enjoy that. I've got meetings all morning, but I'm free from thirteen hundred Mars Standard Time. The ISN bar?"

Walker stood now, he could flea now, away from everything and just collect his thoughts alone in his quarters. Manning followed suit, and the two shook hands exchanging pleasantries regarding meeting one another before parting company.

June 13th, 2259

Narn Homeworld

Panting and completely exhausted Pa'Ko arrived back at the Thenta Ma'Kur safe house in the early hours or the morning. Dawn was just beginning to break and the winds had just started to span the winds at Pa'Ko ankles during the last leg of his arduous journey, but the little Narn had prevailed. He had a sense of accomplishment, his mission had been a success; the manor in which the target was to be disposed of predetermined the outcome of being discovered and chased so that wasn't a let down. But this warming sense of accomplishment at his success was nulled by the gnawing at the back of his mind. He'd endured the three hour long trek across the deserts of the Hekba plateau constantly playing the final moments of the men he'd killed through his mind. The look on their faces, the feeling of the life force draining from their insides, the feel of warm blood on his hands. Wasn't a trained killer meant to enjoy this? Or was it something you learnt to live with, adjust to. Pa'Ko wasn't sure which was true, and he was even less sure what he wanted to do about it. Should he continue on with Ra'Gon and the Guild's training only to be forever haunted by the memories of the innocent lives he claimed, or should he run; run away from it all. As he found shelter amongst the ruins of an old Centauri building that bordered the safe house he realized there was no going back. Ra'Gon had made it very clear once the training had begun, once he had been initiated, seen the faces of the Thenta Ma'Kur, there was no going back. To leave the guild, was to die. And the one thing Pa'Ko was sure on was that he was far to young to meet his maker. This decision, and the hauntings weren't the only thing plagued the fourteen year olds thoughts. The Narn in the Command Centre, Ja'Nar, he knew Pa'Ko's father? All he could think was how did this man know his father? Pa'Ko made a dash for the safe house entrance and entered the passcode into the hidden keypad. It bleeped, acknowledging his personal ID code and granting him access. The door was heavy and it creaked open as Pa'Ko used almost all his might to wedge it open. The safe house was little more than four walls and a roof, walls insulated with almost indestructible neutronium, but just walls none the less. This particular safe house at this particular time of the morning was empty save for Pa'Ko, a few small rodents, a table with a few chairs and a keg that held fresh water. Pa'Ko knew it would only be a few hours until Ra'Gon arrived for a full mission review so he took the most comfortable and least broken looking of the chairs and sat. He let out a large sigh, it wasn't a customary Narn thing to do, but this was an exception. Pa'Ko hoped it was release some of the tension in his, help clear his mind, and focus on the things at hand. Part of his said, forget about them; they're dead, you are paid to kill; who cares. Another part said who cares about your father, he never did anything to help you, and who cares who knew him and who knows you. On any other civilized world being recognized whilst committing a murder would have been a dubious privilege that would have landed Pa'Ko in prison for a very long time; but this was Narn and the police, what there was, were more concerned with simply patrolling the cities and keeping them nice and clear from slum trash for the higher circle of society so it really wasn't an issue for the Thenta Ma'Kur. And then there was another part of him, that longed to know something; anything about his father, why was the only vivid memory of them in hysterical worry? What had happened all those years ago? The only way Pa'Ko could find out was visit this Ja'Nar. Pa'Ko sat up straight, he'd decided, he'd find this Ja'Nar, ask him about his father and… and…

There was a slam on the door and Pa'Ko wasn't alone anymore. Ra'Gon entered, he was early, very early.

"The mission", Ra'Gon started, judging by his voice Pa'Ko could tell his mentor was frustrated.

"The mission was a success master," Pa'Ko said standing to meet Ra'Gon, face-to-chest. "I killed Ma'La as per the contract and escaped."

Ra'Gon shook his head, he paced the room for a moment, "Someone recognized you," he said, Pa'Ko didn't think it would be a problem; surely Thenta Ma'Kur on high profile missions would be recognized at some point? Surely the guild had a protection system?

"I didn't think it'd be an issue!"

"Why the hell didn't you kill him! The man that recognized you is STILL alive. He knows your name, and your rough whereabouts."  
"I didn't think it'd be an issue! I thought my mission was complete with the slaying of Ma'La."

The conversation had degenerated into the classic student-teacher face-off, which nearly always ended in the student submitting to the teacher's overriding will.

"Your mission was complete with his death yes, but it was not a success. Ma'La had powerful allies, he was of the fifth circle!"

"What?! Why was I not told?!"

"I was not informed by our client, be assured he will never work with the Thenta Ma'Kur again. His name, and that of his family has been shamed and black listed in our eyes. But," Ra'Gon held onto his words for a moment, it was the first time Pa'Ko had genuinely seen his mentor worried. Usually the elderly Narn spoke in such deep philosophical terms Pa'Ko had begun to think nothing would ever effect his state of mind.

"But, you can never leave a man who knows your name alive Pa'Ko."

"What do I have to do?" Pa'Ko asked, he was almost pleading. He was so young, so lost, so confused by all this that he just wanted someone to instruct him. To lead him, to tell him what to do to solve all his problems. To make them go away so he could just live life again.

"The man that recognized you," Ra'Gon began but was interrupted by Pa'Ko.

"Ja'Nar, his name is Ja'Nar."

"Yes, Ja'Nar is of the outer circle and will not be missed. I think you know what I have to do."

Pa'Ko face sank further still, he did know what he had to do. He had to kill possibly the only man who could lead Pa'Ko to the truth about his father. And he had to do it that very night.

The winds were oddly absent that day, meaning Pa'Ko's stealthy approach toward the residence of Ja'Nar and his family, was less covert than he would've liked. Dispatched in the middle of the day with Narn's harsh sun beaming down with all it's might the young Narn had been sent by his Thenta Ma'Kur mentor to this innocent man's home. In the walk across the arid landscape that surrounded the Hekba City slums and the slums of the neighbouring city Lagart Pa'Ko had tried to rid his mind of all other thoughts that weren't relevant to his mission and accomplishing the guild's goals. That Ja'Nar knew him, and his father, had only served to complicate what would have otherwise been a mission of unbridled success, and Pa'Ko had even nearly convinced himself he wasn't interested in hearing about his father. Now, however as he walked the final few steps before he knew his electronic route-planner would bleep to indicate his target's residence, he wasn't so sure. How could he let go the only opportunity in fourteen years to find out something about his father, his family's fate. He could sense Ra'Gon knew more than he was letting on, but getting information out of him was like getting blood from a stone; whereas under threat of death this Ja'Nar might be more forthcoming with information. But one constant thought lingered, if he was going to return to Hekba, to continue on the path fate had left him, he would not leave Lagart until Ja'Nar was dead. Without fail his tracker bleeped. Reaching to fiddle with it's controls Pa'Ko saw the device indicated his target was dwelling in the rundown building on his immediate right. Despite the building's dilapidated state, Ja'Nar's outer circle status was obviously in the trimmings he dressed the exterior of his residence with; window holes were draped in high quality curtain fabrics that shielded the interior from the heat of the daytime, large strong real blood oak timber supported a small porch on the front of the property and a large metal looking gate allowed entry from the street through the house's collapsing drymud wall and into the courtyard. Pa'Ko marched proudly up to the gate, swinging it nearly of it's hinges with a small kick. In his right hand, his route-planning tracker device had been replaced with his ceremonial dagger. He knew he would not leave here until Ja'Nar was dead, but whether he'd ask him about his father before killing him was another matter altogether. Pa'Ko reached for the door handle but was frozen in his place when _that_ memory flashes before his eyes again; He remembered reaching out for him but being brushed away. Told to stay in the other room. His father and mother had raised voices, but it didn't sound like they were arguing it sounded as if they were worried. The next thing Pa'Ko knew his mother came him, held him tightly and then… then… something happened.

They say all things happen for a reason, maybe that vision, was the universe's way of helping Pa'Ko make up his mind. Bursting through the door Pa'Ko assessed his immediate surroundings. The humble building was home to Ja'Nar, who sat at a large wooden dining table that looked as though it had seen better days, and his wife whom Pa'Ko could not name who was just about to sit at the table in the centre of the room herself. The couple both stopped, their bodies rigid, with the terrors of having an intruder burst their happiness bubble. "Pa'Ko," Ja'Nar said rising to his feet, he drew a dagger of his own this time. Apparently he'd been expecting something like this.

"Oh Ja'Nar! Be careful!" he wife screamed as she ran into an adjoining room. Fearing she was going for somesort of plasma weapon Pa'Ko decided he'd better end this quick. He assessed his opponent's brawling skills at next to none, judging by the incorrect way Ja'Nar held his less-than-ceremonial dagger. The trainee Thenta Ma'Kur made a lunge at Ja'Nar's stomach, managing to slice the front of the man's utilitarian tunic, but leaving his otherwise unharmed. Now in close proximity however Pa'Ko used his superior speed to land an effectly strong elbow to Ja'Nar's face, sending the older Narn to the floor clutching his bleeding nose. It was then Pa'Ko heard the distinctive sound of a cocking plasma gun. Much like the PPGs used by the Earthers, plasma weapon technology was left over by the Centauri, and it's numbers limited and controlled by the Regime; but if you found one in the desert there was little the government could do about it, they discharged heated plasma that would leave nothing more than a significant burn through the target's body… but would not puncture ship's hulls or damage buildings. Pa'Ko reacted, was it his training or just his survival instinct he wasn't sure. But the plasma gun was soon thrown out across the floor as Pa'Ko, not wanting to injure a lady, simply did a low spinning kick that knocked her to her feet. Pa'Ko made a successful grab for the plasma gun and managed to wield it just as Ja'Nar rose to his feet.

"Pa'Ko! Please, me and my wife… we mean you know harm. I couldn't lie to the authorities, they'd think I was in on it," Ja'Nar pleaded. Pa'Ko could sense a little truth in his voice, but at times like these people were so shocked, terrified, and distorted mentally, that the truth or dishonesty in each spoken word was hard to detect.

"You should not have told them my name," Pa'Ko said, raising the weapon to definite kill shot level and aiming it at Ja'Nar.

Pa'Ko knew then and there he should have just shot Ja'Nar, but he couldn't. He had to know about his father, he had too.

"You have a chance," Pa'Ko said, aiming the weapon then at Ja'Nar's wife, then back to his primary target, he wanted the man to know he'd kill them both if he didn't get the answers he wanted.

"Tell me about my father! How did you know him! How did he die?!" Pa'Ko was nearly shouting now. He reminded himself to keep in check, otherwise the no doubt carried noise of a scuffle coupled with shouting would attract someone's attentions, even if it was just looters who thought the couple dwelling here had maybe killed each other and left countless riches to be ransacked. Pa'Ko didn't want to start taking loads of hostages, if Ra'Gon could even see the situation now; with two semi-hostages Pa'Ko would be in for a tanning of his back.

Ja'Nar swallowed hard, if he could have it all back, mentioning Pa'Ko at all during the attack at work, telling the authorities his name, all of it he would to protect not just himself but that of his bondmate.

"He and I served in the Red Fleet together," Ja'Nar said eventually. The Narn Regime's spacefleet was divided into different sublevels, the Gold Fleet, was the private army of the highest of the Kha'Ri, whilst less intense colours such as Yellow, Blue etc. were made up mostly of regular infantry etc. The Red Fleet however was considered, even now, of quite some importance. "We served aboard the K'Na'Hacas, the K'Na'talos, and the T'La'Navas. We were friends, good friends… he, I and another."

"I'm kind of in a hush," Pa'Ko said, hoping to speed the story along.

"After their death, I helped you…"

"NO! I know that part! Tell me about their death, how did they die? Why did they die? Why did they make me grow up alone?"

Ja'Nar paused for a moment, he had had both his parents, he had gone to a school, he had gotten a good job and become a part of society's outer circle, no small feet for somebody coming from the slums. He couldn't imagine Pa'Ko's suffering.

"Fourteen years ago, our ship the T'La'Navas was patrolling the Centauri border. Something, something happened. The ship was destroyed from within, a reactor leak they originally thought. Only a handful of us survived, myself, your father, and our friend included. But when we returned to Narn… there was an inquiry. Logs from the T'La'Navas' blackbox were recovered showing that transmissions were sent from your father's quarters to a Centauri ship, and that funds had just been transferred to a credit chit aboard the ship from a Drazi source, that could be traced back through several other Non-Aligned worlds to the Centauri."

"My father, was a traitor?" This revelation resonated between Pa'Ko's ears. Even growing up in a Narn created slum, who's population was without work, or hope, because of the Narn's own society, would still die to defend his hellhole to the bitter end from the accursed Centauri.

"That is what the inquiry determined, he was sentenced to death. I watched him die, and only a few hours later, I found your mother had killed herself too… which is where I found you little Pa'Ko, crawling around the floor of your home just a few feet from the body of your mother…"

Pa'Ko had lowered the weapon now, he couldn't imagine that someone related to him had been a traitor to Narn. How could he have nearly compromised his mission, compromised his place amongst the Thenta Ma'Kur for this?! His father was a nobody just like Ra'Gon had said, just like Pa'Ko had always known. And from now on, the road behind him now clear, the path in front of him was finally fog-free. He knew which way his destiny was going now.

Pa'Ko reraised his weapon and pointed it squarely at Ja'Nar, "Wait! I thought if I told you about your father you'd let me go."

Pa'Ko smiled, it was an evil smile, the grin of a man possessed, the look on the face of the man that will kill you.

Pa'Ko's finger itched over the trigger. "Don't you want to know the name of the other Narn who served with me and your father aboard those vessels?"

"No," Pa'Ko said simply and without feeling. He squeezed tight on the trigger of the plasma gun, how fitting the friend of a traitor would be cut down by a Centauri weapon. As Ja'Nar's lifeless body fell to the floor his wife screamed and rushed to be by the side of her husband in his final moments of life. Pa'Ko holstered the revolver sized weapon through the belt of his over-engineered uniform and left the Ja'Nar household without another word. After all his mission was now complete.


	4. Part One, Chapter Three

January 29th, 2259

January 29th, 2259

Mars Colony

13:00

George's, or as it had become known locally as the "ISN Bar", because the owner; a Asian looking gentleman would not spring extra for the sports channels, for the free-to-view ISN network was all that the bar's monitors ever showed, was busy for this time of day. It had been an annoying gimmick at first, one that drove regular pub dwellers away, but it eventually drew in a new crowd, one that enjoyed a quiet drink and a chat with friends over non-stop drinking until you passed out and hoped not to swallow your own tongue.

The large open plan main area seated up to a score of people around half a dozen small tables with Earthwood chairs. The bar, which was located on a slightly raised platform was on the other side of this seating area to the main doorway, and was lined with 1950s looking black leather bar stools. Monitors littered the bar, even on the left hand wall from the bar as you went into the toilets. Seated at the end of the bar without an ISN feed Caliban took tentative sipped from his crystal clear synthetic water he'd ordered about an hour ago. The reason he was killing his day in this particular bar was for the good of his friend Walker Smith. An agitated version of his friend was all Caliban had seen since he'd arrived on Mars, which wasn't exactly a rewarding experience after the long jump from Babylon 5. Last night had been particular bad, possibly because of Walker's defeat to Conchenkov, and partly because Smith had seemed preoccupied with speaking with that Senator at Topside Promotion's main event. Afterward Caliban had managed to get the name of the place Smith had arranged to meet the Senator again, but not the time; which is why he'd had to nurse that one drink for over an hour. With the cloak just about to strike for thirteen hundred hours Mars Standard Time the bar's saloon style doors swung open, admitting Walker and Senator Manning. Caliban turned his back immediately, although he was trying to do his friend some good he doubted very much Walker would appreciate Caliban's presence.

Smith and Manning took a seat at one of the available tables in the main area of the bar, with the Senator gesturing an attractive young waitresses over who took their drinks order. Although Caliban tried not to overhear their conversation it was hard not to with the too-used-to-public-speaking voice of Manning's tended to carry uncomfortably fair. The topic was boxing at first, but as time began to roll by, Smith, for some inexplicable reason was continually trying to steer the conversation towards the Senator's political ambitions, policies etc. Caliban had just finish his beverage and was about to call it a day, deciding maybe his friend didn't need him snooping around in his business after all, maybe he had changed, maybe it was this place that changed him, when he caught sight of a suspiciously fidgety man was sat at the table over from the Senator and Smith. Caliban moved along the bar and took a different seat where he could get a better view of the entire proceedings. The man sat at the table in the very centre of the room had declined any sort of drink, instead he sat nervously at his table, his briefcase laying shut on his knees, gripping it tightly. Perhaps a businessman nervous before meeting an important new client? A young intern hoping for a good interview? The possibilities were endless, but Caliban didn't believe any of them. His departure would be postponed at least until that man had left.

A few more minutes went by, the man had noticed Caliban watching him, and had become even more nervous looking. The senator and Smith's conversation seemed to be drawing to a close. Manning was visibly more than a little tired of Smith's subject turning, especially as it always went back to the Senator's work; a subject Caliban conjectured he was glad to get away from just once in a while. Caliban was put on alert again when the nervous looking man finally made a move. The man rose, making a very definite move to leave his suitcase stood upright near the leg of his table. He then tucked in his chair and headed for the exit. Why would he leave his briefcase? He'd seemed very adamant about holding onto it a minute ago, and why would the man come here meet no-one then simply leave? Did he work for the Senator's security? Maybe he was here on a date and got stood up? Caliban was sure there was a reasonable answer and he was going to get it. He waiting for the nervous man to leave the bar, before getting up himself. He threw a credit chit down on the bar, suddenly remembering his species' reputation for being poor tippers, and followed the man out. In the hustle and bustle of one of the biggest commuter routes in Dome One made tracking the man difficult but not impossible. Caliban was just in time to see his target duck into a small alley off the beaten track. Caliban raced, as quick as a man of his age could, through the ensemble crowd and into the alley stopping dead at it's mouth in-time to see the nervous looking man being handed a credit chit from none other than Talbot. The intrusion on their secret meeting alerted the two men, and Talbot looked up to see Caliban.

"You old fool. Your loyalty will be your undoing. It's too late Caliban. Too late for Smith, for the senator, and for you. But not too late for Mars Independence."

Caliban's face turned to one of horror as he realized what Talbot's plans were. Being an alien Caliban had little to do with Human politics, but it was the worse kept secret in the galaxy that the Earth Alliance had a poor political footing on it's Martian colony. A fact often touted by news networks from the Non-Aligned Worlds, or Centauri, or Narn, to make Earth look a little weaker than it's powerful warships implied. Caliban put two and two together, and got a definite four as an answer. Rushing again Caliban made it to George's bar to warn his friend, to warn the senator, and too warn that attractive young waitress he was sure was trying to make it in acting part-time, that Free Mars planned a terrorist action. He was panting hard as he ran through the saloon like doors, glancing immediately toward where Manning and Smith would be sat. But he saw only the Senator sat there, twiddling his thumbs. Smith's absence immediately worried him, but a turn of his head answered the question of his friend's whereabouts as he saw Walker enter the men's toilets. And then, Caliban never thought about anything again. He would never again be worried about his friends, never again visit them on Mars, on Babylon 5, back on homeworld, anywhere. Because in that instant what Caliban had been about to warn them about happened. The suitcase bomb exploded in an unforgiving inferno that engulfed the bar and the immediate surroundings. Screams of the people lucky enough to be just outside the immediate blast range, but not lucky enough to escape the flinging of debris, soon drowned out all else.

That night ISN would cover the story of the Free Mars bomb that detonated in a bar in Dome One, but George's "ISN Bar" wouldn't be there to broadcast it anymore.

October 17th, 2259

Narn Homeworld

The last night the population of Hekba City's people slept free was interrupted at around oh-three-hundred hours when the bombings started. Spurred on by several military successes on outlying Narn colonies and outposts the Centauri war machine now sat in orbit around the Narn homeworld, their mass drivers in place and working around the clock heaving the great mass of comets and asteroids hurtling towards the surface. The blasts along were obliterating thousands of square miles of developed land, agricultural lands, industrialized lands, populated lands, all destroyed. But that wasn't the worst of it, the dust that had only just started to lay still from the last Centauri invasion was once again through up into the winds of Narn created what was almost an eternal night on the dying world. In the midst of this Pa'Ko, the littlest Thenta Ma'Kur, sat deep inside a guild bunker with his mentor Ra'Gon and a few other surviving assassins hoping to ride out the storm. Nobody spoke a word, everyone knew what was happening. What their world, if it survived this bombardment, was in for. Ra'Gon remembered the original Centauri occupation; he had been a young man when he'd killed his first Centauri, and he hoped he'd been a very old man indeed before he'd have to kill another.

There was a loud bang, the ground shook, and several more kilograms of sands fell from the increasingly unstable looking ceiling. Pa'Ko looked to his mentor for guidance, for reassurance, and found known in his eyes for the old man was as terrified as the young man. Pa'Ko had been on several successful missions since having to kill Ja'Nar, never again had he let his feelings, his curiosity of his pity get in the way of the job at hand. Ra'Gon had never brought up the murder of Ja'Nar again with Pa'Ko, perhaps he was afraid of discussing what Pa'ko had learnt from the former friend of his father's, or maybe he just considered the matter closed. Thenta Ma'Kur training, Pa'Ko knew, was never over until he challenged his master. Pa'Ko knew Ra'Gon was a formidable fighter, even in his advancing years, and didn't look forward to the day he would face him to claim his rightful place as a master of the Thenta Ma'Kur.

Suddenly there was a louder bang, and the ceiling shook even more violently. "We will not be able to stay here long," said an assassin from across the bunker.

"It was never meant as a permanent measure," Ra'Gon assured him. "We have no food or water for with which to replenish our bodies."

"I think the Centauri attacks will end soon," Pa'Ko piped up, someone had to be hopeful didn't they? "If they continue the attacks much longer there will be little of our world left to conquer."

"Who says they want anything left to conquer a kid? Maybe they're just content with wiping out our race."

It was a sobering thought that drowned out any further communication. "When the bombings cease I will signal a shuttle. It will meet us here," Ra'Gon told everyone, his status as elder of the guild putting wait behind his words.

"The shuttles are as safe as we are. So we if survive, so will the shuttles and their pilots. We will survive, and we will be part of the new resistance."

It seemed to everyone Ra'Gon had a long term plan, it was comforting for most, but for Pa'Ko it failed to inspire confidence as he suspected his mentor did indeed not have a plan at all.

Then there was another loud bang, this time closer. The ground shook violently as the asteroid's impact wave tore up the planet's surface, and by extension things dug into that planet's surface. The timbers that had been holding up the failing ceiling finally gave way, burying four of the ten assassins under a hundred tons of sand. In the confusion everyone ran for the exit all at once, most made it out and Pa'Ko found himself the only one left standing in the room. He looked about frantically for his mentor, he spotted him; pinned by a fallen piece of timber.

"Ra'Gon!" Pa'Ko exclaimed, the genuine concern evident in his quivering voice. "No! Please! You've got to get free."

"Here," Ra'Gon said using his one free arm to hand Pa'Ko a communicator, "Signal for the shuttles, we have no time left."

"But – "

"Do it! Now! Damnit Pa'Ko if this is the last instruction your mentor will ever give you don't you want to follow it through!"

Pa'Ko nodded and signalled for pick-up. G'Quon be thanked the communiqué got through and a pilot's cool calm voice reverberated through the communicator is response.

"The shuttle will not be long," Ra'Gon said, even in his last moments he wanted to look after Pa'Ko as if he were his son.

"Ja'Nar, did we mention the name of the third member of the trio they served aboard three different ships in the Red Fleet together?"

Pa'Ko's silence gave Ra'Gon his answer. "It was me Pa'Ko. I… I…" Ra'Gon couldn't say it. All these months of teaching his old friend's son the ways of the Thenta Ma'Kur, not because he thought his friend wanted his son to be an assassin, but because he knew his friend wanted his son to have a chance at survival and that's what Thenta Ma'Kur training meant. A thousand times he'd rehearsed telling Pa'Ko the truth, that he was the one that had contacted the Centauri, would he understand that the destruction of the T'La'Navas, and the disgrace his father endured was not part of the plan? You could never trust the Centauri for anything.

"I can't leave you," Pa'Ko said, his eyes jumped from where Ra'Gon's injured and failing body was impaled by the fallen beam, to where the last of the surviving Thenta Ma'Kur were boarding a shuttle.

"You can Pa'Ko. I've done some awful things, and I'm forever in your debt. This is the only way I can think of repaying you." With that said, and a hope that Pa'Ko would one day realize the truth, and forgive him, Ra'Gon withdrew his hand from that of his student and closed his eyes; embracing death's cold clasp.

"Forget the kid!" the pilot was saying, "We've got to go now." Just as he spoke the hovering shuttle shook slightly, the telltale sign another body had come aboard. "Scratch that, he's aboard!" said another from the rear compartment. "Get us the hell out of here!" said a third.

There, squashed amongst his Thenta Ma'Kur brothers the no-longer intraining assassin Pa'Ko left his mentor, his only friend, to die. Of all the people he'd killed so far, and of all the people he would kill in the future, Ra'Gon's face he would never forget; he would never let the memory be diluted of the man that betrayed his father. Forgiveness was for fools, he decided, looking around at his brethren. The mix of cutthroats and murderers had a profound effect on Pa'Ko's way of thinking, because if his mentor could have betrayed him; who else could. And the last thing he decided then and there, was that he would never trust anyone ever again.


	5. Part One, Chapter Four

Febuary 3rd, 2259

Febuary 3rd, 2259

Mars Colony

Smith sat up in his hospital bed. Four days he'd been cooped up here, although he'd only regained consciousness on the second day. As he fought with his pillow, to fluff it up sufficiently to support him comfortably, Walker's expression was neutral. Maybe it was the high levels of pain killers the doc's had him on to compensate for the burns down his leg. He and a waitress who'd just gone on her break and was freshening up in the ladies' bathroom survived the blast. His thought deep down inside of him, however, were far from neutral. Grief, over those dead; the Senator, Caliban, all the bar's patrons. Guilt, over surviving it. And that damned pain in his leg!

This day was different from the others he'd spent in the hospital, because today he was getting a visitor. It wasn't the kind he would've liked, maybe Garibaldi, maybe those twins he'd met on Beta Colony, it was a visit from the authorities to question him about the explosion.

"Mister Smith?" a uniformed man asked, approaching his bedside. His manor was warm, but his uniform was cold. Smith sat up even further and gulped away an immediate rush of nerves.

"Yes?" Walker responded.

"I'm from the Martian Colony Police Department (MCPD), I've got a few questions to ask you to help with our enquiries. Would you mind?" the niceties were a formality, one the Police Officer didn't need to use; but chose to, which spoke volumes about his character. Or at least the way he wanted his character to be perceived by Walker.

"Not at all," Smith said, "Please take a seat." He gestured to a small chair by his bedside, which the officer duly took.

"I gotta be honest with you," Walker began, "I can't remember much from before the blast. Doc's said an explosion like that can do things like that to a guy."

"I know all too well," the officer explained, "I've been assigned to interview many survivors and witnesses from this and previous Free Mars bombings."

"So Free Mars have claimed responsibility?" Walker asked, to be met with a quizzical look from the Officer that expressed astonishment that he didn't really know. "We don't get ISN here," Walker said by way of explanation.

The Officer nodded in understanding, "The feed went out from some secret safehouse they have moments after the explosion. It was cryptic as always, but Free Mars have claimed responsibility for it."

Walker shook his head, "How can they excuse killing like this? How does this get them what they want?"

The Officer paused a moment, "You haven't been on Mars very long. Have you Mister Smith?" It was a reasonable assumption based on Smith's apparent lack of knowledge and understanding on Mars' unique political situation.

"No," Walker stated simply.

The Officer stiffed his weight from one side of his body to the other, not only did it iron out the developing crease in his uniform, but also let him get closer to Smith.

"I have information from a reliable source that you requested the meeting with the Senator specifically?" the Officer said menacingly.

Walker moved uncomfortably, all of a sudden whatever position he wriggled into seemed as bad as the last because of the Officer's unwavering glare. "I don't know what…"

"I think you do Mister Smith," the Officer cut him off, "I also have from a reliable source that you've had some dealings with off the beaten track fights? Earning a bit of untaxable income? It all doesn't stand up well for your character."

"Hey you wait just a minute!" Walker said, finding a psychological leg to stand on, "I didn't know my character needed standing up. The man I am speaks for itself."

A small smile tugged at the Police Officer's lip, was he mocking Smith? Or did he just find the idea of a truly honest man hard to believe? "Those fights are usually organised by people with connections with Free Mars Mister Smith. You happen to fight in those fights, and THEN request a meeting with one of the most unpopular Senators in Mars Dome? Look at it objectively Mister Smith, would you say all this would seem like coincidence?"

Smith froze, things were starting to come back to him. Unpleasant things. His deal with Talbot, the promise to get information from the Senator for him. Had Talbot got tired of waiting for the information to be forthcoming? Or was this his intention all along? Smith didn't know, but he could see not only his last chance for a good career slipping away, but also his freedom.

After a brief pause, during which the Officer's stare remained fixed definitely on Smith he rose. "We'll be chasing up every lead open to us to help our investigation Mister Smith." The Officer turned, strode a few paces, before stopping to face Smith once again; "Oh, and don't leave Mars. We'll be in touch."

With those ominous words left ringing in the old boxer's ears the Police Officer left. Smith let his head fall backwards against his bedboard, it landed with a satisfying thud sound. "What have you got yourself into this time?" Walker said outloud. It was a good thing the others in his ward were sound asleep or they'd have thought him a little odd talking to himself like that. It had been the first moment he'd considered his own fate since the blast. His days in hospital had been spent grieving over the loss of Caliban, which as it now appeared could be his fault. He couldn't imagine how he was going to live the rest of his days knowing people had died because of his actions, because of his selfishness. How could he have been so foolish? Trusting a man like Talbot? Where were his senses?

"Walker!" came a voice from the other side of the gleaming white ward. Thanks to the various drug induced sleepers in the room only a few awoke and looked up at the disturbance. Talbot came meandering toward his injured talent, nodding apologies insincerely to those he'd woken and took the chair next to Smith's bed that had been occupied by the questioning officer moments before.

"What the hell do you want?" Smith demanded, the fire in his heart returning. It was a natural human instinct to want revenge? Did it help the grieving process to hunger for vengeance? Or more disturbingly yet, did it satisfy oneself if it is fulfilled?

"Come now, Walker," Talbot said using his smarmiest voice through his smarmiest smile. "I just came to congratulate you on a job well done!"

Walker could barely contain his anger, only his injuries preventing him from leaping from his bedbound position and giving Talbot one of those famous right fists to the nose.

"You! You set me up!" it wasn't as good as punching him square in the face, but Walker would have to make do… until we was better anyway.

Talbot's insincere smile was replaced by a genuinely evil one, "Is this where you pledge revenge for the death of that old coot? And then maybe threaten to expose me to the police?"

Walker narrowed his eyes, "As a matter of fact…"

"Because that wouldn't be very wise," Talbot interrupted, "I find proving me involved very difficult when it was me who tipped the authorities off about your request to the Senator for a meeting. The fact that old fool Caliban was there was merely a coincidence."

"A coincidence! That was my friend! He's dead because of you!"

"Wrong!" Talbot said, almost yelling now. "He's dead because of you Walker. You asked for the meeting with the Senator, and YOU planted the bomb. That is the truth."

Walker's anger was beyond boiling point, but from his bed he could do nothing… and to try would only leave himself laying on the floor rather than his comfy bed. Talbot sneered smugly, "Good night Mister Smith. Be seeing you." Talbot offered a kind of strange salute. Then with that the man who framed Walker Smith was gone, back to crawl under his rock, back to running his All Fight All Night Promotion, back to helping terrorist organisations ruin more lives; and their was nothing Smith could do about it.

October 18th, 2259

Narn Homeworld

"It was me Pa'Ko," those had been Ra'Gon's last words to his student before his passing in the escape from the collapsing Thenta Ma'Kur safehouse that claimed several other lives, and almost Pa'Ko's. Now, sitting alone in a dark corner of a second guild hideout, these were the only words Pa'Ko replied over and over in his mind. The young Narn had been, not betrayed that was too strong of a word he'd decided, but deceived was more accurate. Ra'Gon, his mentor, Ja'Nar, his victim and Pa'Var, his father, had all served together in the Narn Military's Red Fleet aboard the T'La'Navas fourteen years ago. Information pieced together from his knife-to-throat interrogation of Ja'Nar, and the final words of his mentor, Pa'Ko had managed to get the puzzle almost complete. A few pieces were still missing, but Pa'Ko's own past; the reason why he had been forced to endure a lifetime of misery and destitution, seemed irrelevant now in the face of what was happening to his homeworld outside of the protective four walls. The safehouse was built deep into the Narn ground much like the other. One heavily shielded stairwell lead from the surface down three flights of stairs to the neutronium plated room which Pa'Ko now shared with four of the other Thenta Ma'Kur that had survived the demolition of the first safehouse at the hands of the Centauri mass drivers. None of them knew what awaited them outside those doors, for all they knew the entire area could be crawling with Centauri ground forces just waiting for a Narn with a rifle, or even a simple hunting knife, to pop out of the wood work so they could be cut down; their friends and families slaughtered. Their wait seemed an indefinite one. As soon as the thundering of Centauri weapons of mass destruction had ceased two of the Thenta Ma'Kur had gone out of their hiding and into the above world to seek out supplies, possibly shelter, and hopefully more Narns willing to join what they knew they would need; a new Resistance movement. Now three Narnish hours had passed and still nothing had been heard. The other four were exchanging worried glances, wondering which of them would be the first to predict the deaths of those whom had been brave enough to risk expose, but Pa'Ko's expression remained numb; he was too wrapped up in his own thoughts, his own personal war, to worry about anyone else's.

"Hey Pa'Ko," the eldest of the Thenta Ma'Kur that sat in silence. His name was Ma'Kan, he was a chef by profession, but had been offered to join the ranks of the Thenta Ma'Kur or die when he had accidentally stumbled onto one of their meetings some fifteen years ago. Being a good Narn, and one that valued his own skin, he'd agreed to the former. "Have you got any water?"

Supplies were running thin, this safehouse wasn't as well stocked as their previous hideout and the complete lack of water was starting to make them all a little edgy.

When Pa'Ko didn't respond, it wasn't out of disrespect, nor ignorance, but he was simply embroiled with his own thoughts to notice he was being addressed.

"Hey boy!" Ma'Kan said raising himself wearily to his feet. He dusted his thick and OTT Narn uniform free of the sand collected from the floor and marched over to where the young boy sat. "Is there a malfunction with yours ears Pa'Ko?" he almost spat the boy's name out. Pa'Ko still remained silent and unmoving; it wasn't until Ma'Kan reached down and dragged Pa'Ko to his feet by his collar did the student of Ra'Gon finally pay the old chef heed.

"Wha…" was all escaped Pa'Ko mouth before all hell broke loose. Ma'Kan did not have time to draw back his fist and strike the boy for his disrespect; no, something far worse occurred. There was a loud bang, not one of an explosion, more of a tremendous amount of bodies ramming something heavy and wooden… like a door, like a door like the one to the Thenta Ma'Kur safe house. Ma'Kan dropped Pa'Ko, and turned around just as the other two Narn rose to their feet to greet whatever awaited them. There was a moment of tense silence, broken only when a small spherical silver object rolled down the stairs and into the safehouse. The Narn nearest it looked quizzically at it, only to be thanked with the item releasing a nasty burst of gas. As the high pressured stream of noxious gases escaped their metallic prison the other three Narns, not immediately killed by the release, made a dash for the stairs. The first to reach the bottom of the stairs was Fen'Tar, a Thenta Ma'Kur not much older than Pa'Ko, his future still to be blazed ahead of him by destiny Fen'Tar was eager to survive, to escape, and his self preservation came above all else. He however met an untimely end that day when he rounded the first corner of the stairs and met the loud end of a Centauri plasma weapon. His lifeless body rolled back down the stairs, tripping Ma'Kan. Pa'Ko had managed to leap at the last minute, leaving him enough time to watch Ma'Kan being pinned to the floor at the bottom of the safehouse by Fen'Tar's corpse, before having to dodge a blast of hot plasma from the very same Centaur weapon.

Having successfully averted this first shot Pa'Ko reached into his boot where he kept a small knife, he used for emergencies and meals, and readied it and himself. As the gas began to creep up the staircase toward his overeager lungs Pa'Ko tensed as he heard the heavy footsteps of a Centauri footsoldier approaching. His training having now full control over Pa'Ko mind, body and soul, the young Narn leapt heroically into the Centauri line of fire, only to use his adept quickness to launch the small knife before the Centauri could fire. The knife caught the soldier between the eyes and his empty husk of a body fell past Pa'Ko and down the stairs to join Ma'Kan, Fen'Tar and Pa'Ko's other Thenta Ma'Kur brother. Time to think and reflect was at a premium, so Pa'Ko did little more than glance back at the rapidly dissolving corpses at the foot of the stairs before grabbing the discarded Centauri rifle and gingerly making his way to freedom.

Emerging into the hazy light of a windy Narn day Pa'Ko kept himself low. Including the first, he'd dispatched four Centauri on his ascension to the surface; and he knew from Ra'Gon's teaching Centauri footsoldiers normally operated in groups of five or six, or more of them could be in the vicinity. The wind was even stronger than it had been before, perhaps the artificial storms cooked up by the Centauri attacks had mixed with more natural weather patterns to create some sort of super storm. Wandering around almost blind in what he hoped was a straight line from the bunker's entrance Pa'Ko eventually found the landing pad, where the shuttle that had saved him ad his Thenta Ma'Kur brothers from their last refuge still sat, albeit now with a damaged propulsion drive. Pa'Ko, feeling his way around the craft, in the hopes of finding the entrance to seek shelter, ran into what he was afraid of. With visibility down to only a few metres he'd almost tripped over the other two Centauri soldiers in the unit that had breached the guild's bunker. Pausing at the last moment before being discovered by them Pa'Ko took a knee and searched his repertoire of attacks for one that could kill both without being injured himself. In this brief respite Pa'Ko could over the soldiers talking in their native tongues. "Why the hell did they need to send us in so soon after the bombardment attacks anyway? This sand is getting everywhere!"

"You know fleet are always laughing at the infantry, this is just another insult!"  
"Yeah, you don't see any Grand Admirals down here do ya?!"

"No ya' don't! But experts says the winds so die down soon, and then we'll be able to get ourselves first dibs on some nice Narn girlfriends! Catch my drift?"

"Your sick!"

"Am I? Hey, there's gotta be something worth having on the god forsaken dustball!"

"Look, all we've been sent down here to do is get preliminary reports of possible Resistance."

"Speaking of which, where the hell are those other guys? They were supposed to meet us back here in five!"

Sensing the moment to strike would soon pass Pa'Ko leapt from cover. He managed to catch both Centauri off-guarded and neither had time to even reach for their rifles before the loud end of Pa'Ko's let fly with a savage burst that left two almost indistinguishable bodies. Satisfied justice had been done for the murder of his brothers Pa'Ko decided to seek refuge from the winds inside the shuttle. He eventually found the pressure hatch and after a brief debacle with the pin-entry granted him access to it's sand-free interior.

Pa'Ko made a beeline for the bench seats in the rear of the craft, where so many Thenta Ma'Kur had been packed when escaping before, and sat down. Setting his rifle down he began to take an item of his armour off at a time, holding them at arms length away from him and shaking the sands from it's nooks and crannies; and Narn armour had a lot of those. Pa'Ko knew he probably wasn't very safe here, eventually someone would notice a patrol unit was missing, and having left two Centauri bodies right outside his shelter probably hadn't been the best move with avoiding detection in mind, but sleep still tugged at the young Narn. Eventually Pa'Ko gave in, setting his alarm for three hours time he decided to get some shut eye.

Any hope of rest however was dashed. Pa'Ko's dreamverse was nearly worse than the waking nightmare of his homeworld invaded. In front of a even younger adolescent Pa'Ko stretched a long stone bridge, unlike one he ever remembered seeing in reality. Despite it seeming eerily familiar the pouchling Pa'Ko felt as if he was attached to this place, but he couldn't quite figure out why. Finally forcing himself to go forward Pa'Ko found himself having timidly covered about half the bridge's span before even realising it. He stopped, suddenly petrified that the shore he knew he was safe on was just as far away as the shore he wasn't so safe on. Then, just as fear was about to engulf him completely there was a voice. "Pa'Ko," it said. Pa'Ko spun around, glancing nervously in all directions; longing for the voice's owner to identify themselves. "Pa'Ko, you've only got a little way to go."

"Wha… who are you? What are you?" The irony of his first question lost on a Narn lightyears away from Babylon 5, Pa'Ko began to look around frantically. He knew that voice, it was…  
"I'm your father Pa'Ko," the voice said. The boy turned around one final time, meeting Pa'Var, the man who fathered him, standing before him. His dress was not that of a Lieutenant in the Red Fleet, but the simply white dressing gown Pa'Ko most remembered his father in. "This is the bridge Pa'Ko," his father said. "There is only one path of the bridge, to make it across safely. You must find that one path and stick to it."

Pa'Ko was lost for words. Perhaps if he were awake, and this was a vision, he might have made more sense of his surroundings and of the words he was confronted with. But in his unconscious state everything that was said seemed to echo horribly around him until the meaning they carried became distorted and confusing. "Father? Why? How? I've never dreamed of you before."

"Because you never needed to before my son. But you are on the bridge now. Choose the right path Pa'Ko."

With that the apparition vanished, along with the imaginary bridge, and the universe around him; leaving Pa'Ko alone in a black void. Suddenly immediately terrified the young Pa'Ko began to scream, so loudly Pa'Ko awoke.

If he were Human he would have been drenched in sweat, but Pa'Ko's thick Narn skin only glistened with light perspiration. He was however panting erratically. Pa'Ko sat up straight, checking the location of his weapon and the time on his chrono. He'd been asleep for mere moments, but what occurred there was enough to satisfy his hunger for sleep for a good while.


	6. Part One, Chapter Five

February 13th, 2259

Mars Colony – Smith Residence

Walker's quarters were as sparsely equipped as last time, only now, everything was packed away; even the few things he'd bought with his first, and last, pay cheque. Walker himself sat on a solo wooden chair a few feet back from the room's communication terminal. The Mars Com. Corp. logo made a few 360o turns before being replaced by the BAB-COM logo that represented the communication network that operated in, to and from, the last of the Babylon stations. This two managed to make a few full rotations before, having had an open channel on Walker's dollar for nearly a minute, finally giving way to the face of Walker's last true friend: Chief Warrant Officer Michael Garibaldi.

The man looked tired, was it the tireless thankless job he did? Or the time difference? Garibaldi was never afraid to speak his mind, and it gave Walker his answer; "You DO know there's a seven hour time difference between Mars and Babylon 5 right Walker?"

Smith smiled, it was the first time he'd done that in a while. Since Caliban had arrived actually… Walker pushed that thought to the forgotten recesses of his mind, the less he thought about his departed friend the better for his sanity.

"Michael," Walker said, letting his smile drift away into memory; the overriding weight of his situation suddenly written again across his face.

"How's it goin' with you?" Smith wanted to keep the conversation light, at least to start with, he wanted to be reminded what a normal conversation between friends could be like before his life changed irrevocably.

"Yeah, not bad friend. Got a new CO a couple months back, oh yeah and got shot in the back by my Number Two. So busy as usual. I had been expecting a call from you since about August last year!"

"Hey yeah, sorry about that," Walker admitted he'd been a little preoccupied with everything recently. Although he had sent a couple of vids of his fights anonymously to Garibaldi's mailbox back in his Topside days. He guessed Michael never got them…

"Look Michael," Walker said, he'd wanted to exchange pleasantries first. He'd even made up his mind before the conversation even started to try and put on a brave face. But he found he wasn't strong enough and caved in to the pressure. "I did contact you just to catch up. Honestly. But I really gotta be honest with you."

Garibaldi's expression took a turn for the worse, a warm, but sleepy smile, was suddenly replaced with a look of genuine concern.

"You heard about the last Free Mars bombing?"

"Yeah, of course. It was all over the Earth Force and civilian nets. Why? You weren't injured in it were you? Those damn Free Mars bastards. I'll…"

Walker held up his hand, cutting Garibaldi off mid-speech. "Michael, I've been arrested awaiting trial for being that Free Mars bastard who planted the bomb."

It had been the first time Walker had had to say it to anyone. With Caliban gone and having made no real friends on Mars Walker had lived a lonely existence for the past few months, despite his overly outward personality and friendly nature, and he'd never thought twice about how hard it would be to talk about with someone. Garibaldi stopped, his eyesbrows did all the talking now. Confusing, disbelief, they were as plain as day across the Security Chief's face. When his good friend seemed to be struggling with his words Smith offered support. He raised his leg up to the screen, showing where the Martian authorities had attached a tracker to him, "The joys of being out on bail," Smith said, he couldn't bare Michael's face, so he wanted to slip a joke in, even not a very funny one.

"Look, Walker. I got connections, I used to work on Mars. I… I… still got a few guys back there who might owe me a favour, I can…"

Walker held up his hand again, "Look Garibaldi I didn't contact you to try and get you to parry favours for me. And unless you could bribe a judge for me I think my fate is pretty much in my own hands this time."

Garibaldi looked speechless. He'd seen so many lives go down the drain in his profession; even his own, but he never thought he'd seen Walker Smith and out for the count. Taking a deep breath Michael accepted his friend's fate the same way Walker had, "When the trial?" he asked.

"I'm only gonna tell you if you promise me not to drop everything and rush back here for it."

Garibaldi looked pained, his friend had seen through his scheme. Besides maybe a long space journey after only being back in the force for a few weeks wasn't such a good idea. Might not go down to well with that new CO and all. After getting a reluctant nod from Garibaldi Walker answered with; "April first."

"Jeez, they don't hang around do they on Mars?"

"Not when dealing with suspected terrorists, you know how bad things are down here. I've got a lawyer, the best I could afford, and I've got a case. But… they set me up good a proper."

"Sounds just about right for Free Mars, Wait 'til I get a hold of 'em."

"Michael. It's bigger than you think, framing me is just a matter of convenience. Really Free Mars don't need to frame anyone, but it satisfies the authorities if they've got a scapegoat. Someone to arrest, put on public trial."

"So they look like they're actually doing there jobs, and have a handle on the terrorism problem."

"Exactly."

Their conversational exchange was interrupted by a quiet bleeping Walker's end. It was the reminder Walker had set a few hours before, he hoped to have more time with his friend than he'd had, but time on the tachyon communication spaceways was limited and he'd had to wait his turn.

"Look Michael," Walker said apologetically, "I gotta go do something."

Garibaldi nodded, he knew that kind of 'something' was something unpleasant, and he didn't question further. Garibaldi signed off with a promise he'd do what he could from where he was. After his face disappeared Walker was left alone in his dark room, with nothing but a blank monitor and the thought of a solemn duty to perform to keep him company.

He contacted his parole officer and informed him of his predicted movements, and dressed in appropriate attire. Shortly after he'd survived the third degree from his suspicious parole officer had been handled Walker meandered toward one of Marsport's smaller and more out of the way docking areas. He walked alone in a cold white corridor, stopping only when he heard the low-pitch rumble of trolley wheels headed toward him. He took a step or two aside to allow them to pass. Normally one would be quite curious as to the contents of such a container, but Walker was not. It was a small, plain, utilitarian version of a coffin, a coffin for his good friend Caliban, who died because of his actions. Swallowing the guilt quickly to keep the tears from rolling down his cheeks Walker followed the trolley glumly, contemplating or rather trying not to contemplate his life. When the trolley and he reached where a small nondescript shuttle awaited it Walker was surprised to find others there to. But who else on Mars new about Caliban? Enough to care about his remains returning to his homeworld. Then he realized as the hoodies figures revealed their faces to him, they weren't from Mars. They were the Mutai fighters. Fighters with so much honour they'd travelled days, days without proper training, without body enhancing and cleansing foods, to pay their respects to their departed friend and to make sure his body arrived safely. Out of the group of hoodied figures only the tallest of them, the Mutai champion; Gyor, stepped forward to speak with Walker Smith.

"Caliban was an honourable man," Gyor said, his tone almost neutral; but a slight hint of nastiness gave it an edge.

"And he did not deserve a dishonourable end. Betrayed by his friend, a friend he travelled across the stars to be with. A friend that was supposed to be more than what he has become."

Gyor turned away, he'd come to make his peace with not only the departed but with the man he thought responsible too. "My kind and I no longer call you brother Walker Smith. You walk alone now." With that and a few furious looks from the other Mutai fighters they were gone, loaded safely with Caliban's charred remains aboard a shuttle bound for some world or other on the rim.

Mulling over Gyor's words Walker Smith almost ran to the seclusion of that blank white corridor. If only they knew the truth, believed Smith's story, not the one cooked up by the police; or the media, but the honest-to-god truth that Smith knew. Leaning against the wall, head in his hands, tears beginning to escape, Smith let his body fall slowly to the floor, he really was on his own now.

* * *

October 19th, 2259

Narn Homeworld – Early Morning

Pa'Ko watched again as his younger self stepped tentatively toward the centre of the stone bridge. Again the figure of his father appeared to him, this time however the words were different.

"Pa'Ko, the path you walk is not predetermined by your upbringing, your heritage, nor your training. It is for you to decide."

The child Pa'Ko stood their looking up in wonder at his father's figure, the strong, proud, looking Narn seemed so tall, so impressive… he couldn't have been a traitor. Pa'Ko's father, Pa'Var, reached out for his son but suddenly halted, looking right and left nervously as if worried. "You must stand strong Pa'Ko. You must survive to walk your path."

Suddenly Pa'Ko awake with a start. There was a loud banging all around him. Someone was trying to get inside his shuttle. Pa'Ko struggled into the forward compartment to see if the scanners could be operated to tell him exactly who the hell it was banging on the door. As he sat himself down into the pilot's seat ready to check the equipment the brief lingering hope that just maybe his Thenta Ma'Kur brothers that had braved the storms hours ago had returned, were dashed. Outside the storm had subsided somewhat; enough to show several armed Centauri foot soldiers wielded their weapons in an aggressive manor stood directly outside the cabin. As Pa'Ko starred with pure hatred into their eyes he heard the shuttle's hatch being forced open. These invaders, first they invade his homeworld, then his one place of solace and refuge, Pa'Ko would be damned if he went without a fight. Eyeing his rifle and judging it to far away to reach it in time before the soldiers were on him Pa'Ko reached into his boot and retrieved his knife. Holding it out in front of him as he was trained, and glaring his sharpened teeth he lunged at the first Centauri who approached. Before his weapon could tear open the flesh of the invading devils, however, Pa'Ko's head met the butt of one other of the soldier's rifles knocking him for six.  
"He's a fighter!" the Centauri joked, helping the distressed looking one whom Pa'Ko had attacked back to his feet.

"I think he'll make a fine digger, don't you?" the jovial Centauri said slapping his companion on the back with a mighty thud.

And with that Pa'Ko fate for the near future was sealed. The Centauri had moved onto Narn quickly, not wanting the dust to settle to the extent to make ground travel easy enough for the indigenous population to form any sort of resistance. They made fatal mistakes during their last occupation and they were determined not to make similar errors this time around. Pa'Ko would be given a number, as all other Narns were, and dispatched to one of the labour camps that the Centauri were already organising on the outskirts of the major surviving Narn cities.

Pa'Ko awoke, actually feeling more refreshed this time thanks to a dreamless sleep than he had from his self-induced sleep. Rubbing the collected dirt from his eyes he surveyed his new surroundings. It had been a matter of hours since the bombings of the Narn homeworld had ceased and already the Centauri had everything nice and organised. It seemed, at least to Pa'Ko, that they'd been planning this invasion for a very long time indeed. The first thing the young Narn Assassin recognized with a small jug of clear water, perched on the edge of a small wooden chair. Pa'Ko tried to move his body, but dragging it along the floor from where he'd been unceremoniously dumped proved a harder challenge than he'd expected; and he winced in pain.  
"It's alright," a female voice said, stepping into Pa'Ko's line of sight and offering a simple stare. "You need water?" she asked, her words should have been soothing, but her tone didn't convey as such; maybe it was something to do with being a Centauri prisoner? Pa'Ko tried to speak, but failed, finding his throat dry and sore beyond belief. He managed a nod. The female reached over to the jug of water and held it in both hands as if it were sacred. He put the pouring end to Pa'Ko parched lips and tipped ever so slightly, allowing just enough and no more to pass into his mouth.

"Better?" she asked returning the jug to it's home.

Pa'Ko just nodded again, he'd wanted to offer a slight smile as a thanks; but he couldn't smile, not whilst he was a prisoner of the Centauri.

He tried to stand once again, managing to make it to his right knee before collapsing back as a heap on the floor.

"Wow," the female said rushing to his side, "You've gotta take it easy, you've suffered a pretty bad beating." She put her hand to Pa'Ko's chest, for the first time he realized his state of dress. His top completely exposed, his dark Narnish skin was littered with deep blue bruises where a few leery Centauri were obviously having some fun whilst he was unconscious. His bottoms were no longer the pin-encrusted combat wear he was attired in before his captured, instead he wore a simple set of black trousers that hugged his figure to such an extent they chaffed nastily when he moved. Noticing him examining himself the female explained, "They strip you of everything when you enter this place. They say it would be a distraction."

Pa'Ko nodded in understanding, not in forgiveness. He took the outstretched hand from his female caretaker and managed to hoist himself finally to his feet. With her help he managed to make it to a nearby bench where he took a seat.

"Where…" he said, his throat still throbbing with pain, "Are we?" Pa'Ko was a little disoriented, but I guess that came from being captured, and knocked unconscious for god knows how long. He just wanted to know a few things; where he was, what time it was, and how he was going to escape. He'd hoped from his sitting up vantage he'd have been able to answer that question himself, saving his throat, but he and the female occupied a non-descript grey walled room furnished in nothing but the chair where the water stood and this church-like bench Pa'Ko now sat-upon. The room's only entrance was no a barred door as he'd expected of a Centauri jail-cell, but of a simple Narnish Wood construction.

"You're in the ghettoes of Grekta City," she said, despite her almost hostile monotone the voice of any Narn was like a song to Pa'Ko's ears right now.

"The Centauri have established a labour camp here."

"Why… are…" he swallowed hard, and it seemed to clear whatever was causing his throat such discomfort, "in here? This room? Not baking in the sun? Or coughing on dust?"

"The Centauri's attacks from orbit have left the storms so bad extended exposure will kill us all."

"I thought that's what they wanted."

"Yes, but they don't have a work force if we're all dead. They have us work in shifts. Two hours in, Four hours out. All day."

Pa'Ko nodded, he guessed the Centauri had built their labour camps hurriedly around exciting slums, to make use of the structures already in place for sheltering the work force. "Behind that door is two Centauri guards. And at the end of each segment of shelters is four more guards," the female explained.

As Pa'Ko absorbed all the information he realized she hadn't shared her name. "What is your name?" Pa'Ko asked, talking was getting less painful, he wanted to ask for a little more water, but daren't incase that was an entire month's ration.

At this seemingly simple question his companion winced, "Has all the dust made you forget?" Pa'Ko said, it was first time he'd joked in days…

The female shook her head and strode away from Pa'Ko and back around the room, as if she needed room to think; to really consider her answer. "I cannot tell you my real name," she said, adding for explanation; "It might be recognized. And you're never sure who's listening, ya'know?"

"Well," Pa'Ko said a little frustrated, if he was to send the next however many years he was to live with this woman in these close quarters he wanted to at least know her real name. "What name are you using?"

The female let out a sigh and brushed the dust clear off her tattered rags. Her outfit was little more than Pa'Ko's. It consists of a similar legging type garment, but consisted of a small matching black top.

"Just call me Ka'Jara for now," she said finally, the time it had taken for her deliberations made Pa'Ko wonder if she'd come up with that name on the spot. Afterall it was doubtful the Centauri in-charge of the high-death toll labour camps would be too bothered about identicards.

It was fortunate that they were spared another five minutes after their opening exchange, as Pa'Ko used the time wisely to recover from his wounds and increase his mobility. When their five minutes were over, however, the door to their dwelling was slung open with a mighty thud and two Centauri soldiers, both as big as houses and twice as wide, marched in. Without a word they raised their rifles up and gestured Pa'Ko and this Ka'Jara to exit. Not wanting to disappoint someone who was pointing a weapon at them the two Narn obliged. A quick walk down a wooden bottom corridor, shielded from the winds only by a small mud wall to above shin height, and the two Narn were herded into a fenced off area where a dozen or more Narn were penned in. "What are you to do with us?" Ka'Jara asked, Pa'Ko was surprised at her forthrightfulness, was she not terrified?

One of the two large soldiers answered where with the butt of his rifle to her gut. "There will be no further questions. You will work, or you will die." Pa'Ko managed to caught his winded companion before she reached the floor and he dragged her inside the fenced area. The others that had been rounded up looked as rough and tired as Pa'Ko felt and they offered them not a look as they entered. The gate swung shut automatically behind them. Five or six Centauri sentries walked the perimeter of the work area, but none stepped inside, perhaps for fear of being mauled by a desperate Narn with nothing to live for, or perhaps if anything did happen the entire penned area could be glassed and not a single drop of Centauri blood would be spilled. Either way Pa'Ko didn't care. The worrying thoughts regarding his past had resurfaced on the march to the work-yard, he'd hoped to have left them… but that dream, where his father was guiding him across a crumbling old bridge, kept coming back to haunt him; what did it all mean?

Pa'Ko mirror Ka'Jara and picked up a shovel. The work they'd been brought here to do seemed little more than busy work, they were just digging a big hole in the ground; and he doubted very much there was anything of any value under Narn's surface, because there was nothing of much value on Narn's surface. But he worked none-the-less, even if it only meant his life would be prolonged a few more days, hours, minutes even. Because every minute more he lived was a chance to escape. To break himself and his brother out, to slit the throat of a Centauri soldier and feel his warm blood on his hands… to use the training Ra'Gon had given him for a greater purpose other than to simply fulfil contracts to wealthy Narns.


End file.
